


Dark Hearts

by Entropyrose



Category: overwatch
Genre: A/B/O, Abusive Relationship, Alpha Gabriel Reyes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bottom jack morrison, Dead dove-do not eat, M/M, Master Gabriel Reyes, Master/Slave, Medical Kink, Object Insertion, Omega Jack Morrison, Oviposition, Possible Mpreg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slave Jack Morrison, Top gabriel reyes, Virgin Jack Morrison, Voyeurism, forced climax, forced insertion, full belly kink, major non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: Commander Jack Morrison had spent years denying his reproductive directive; masking his scent with the muck and mire of open war and dousing his heats with an amount of suppressants that might kill a smaller man. Add to that his raspy voice and his authoritative demeanor, and not one of his men would ever have dared to assume he was anything other than the perfect soldier. He prided himself on it, and the others would stare in awe as he traipsed right past the omegas without even batting an eye. They did nothing for him, it would seem, because he was far too practiced and powerful to be swayed by the opposite directive. One of the few. The elite. The alphas.It wasn’t until one fateful mission that everything came crashing down in a cloud of purple smoke and white-hot flames.Or, Commander Jack becomes the slave of a mysterious smoke monster. Please mind the tags.





	1. Chapter 1

Commander Jack Morrison had spent years denying his reproductive directive; masking his scent with the muck and mire of open war and dousing his heats with an amount of suppressants that might kill a smaller man. Add to that his raspy voice and his authoritative demeanor, and not one of his men would ever have dared to assume he was anything other than the perfect soldier. He prided himself on it, and the others would stare in awe as he traipsed right past the omegas without even batting an eye. They did nothing for him, it would seem, because he was far too practiced and powerful to be swayed by the opposite directive. One of the few. The elite. The alphas. 

It wasn’t until one fateful mission that everything came crashing down in a cloud of purple smoke and white-hot flames. 

___________________________________

He hears the bullet before he feels it, tearing across his visor with a deafening CRACK and catapulting it off his face. It shoots off in one direction and Jack goes another, careening into a brick wall with his heels flying over his head and sending him into pile of rubble face-first. A mortar goes off overhead and instinctively he ducks, only realizing moments later that it’s not a mortar but another blast from the same firearm, and it’s drawing closer. He can only hear out if his left ear as he stumbles off the pile and instinctively thumbs the communications device, screaming above the bullets for his team’s location. 

Of course, he can’t hear a reply. His visor is gone and with it, his only means of communication. With a roar, he rips the threaded wire off his collar and paws his way through the stifling fog (it’s getting thicker by the second) in search of his blaster. A boot at his back knocks the wind from his lungs and slams him to the bullet-riddled granite. A guttural, gleeful chuckle ebbs up from the pits of hell as a voice says, “Little soldier lost his way.” 

Jack veers around, narrowly missing the second boot as it comes down on the pavement where his head was, to stare into a ghostly face with glowing red eyes and smoke coiling out from its nostrils. He pulls the pin on a grenade and flings it high into the air, aiming for the patch of earth he spots just across the way. It distracts the creature, but not long enough, and soon it is back on his heels. He claws at the ground with his shredded gloves as powerful hands wrap around his legs and he is hauled back, flipped halfway like a pretzel and his shoulder blades slam into the concrete. He grinds his teeth together in a frustrated, hoarse roar as his eyes once again lock onto the creature’s above him. 

“Tsk tsk tsk,” the voice chimes, wiggling one claw-like finger back and forth in front of Jack’s nose. “Not so fast.” The other hand comes up, big and black and blocking out the sun that shines through the heavy smoke, and Jack braces himself. This won’t be the first time he’s been cut up. Sure as hell won’t be the last. 

The monster pauses. As the muffled sound of the firefight fades away into the back of his consciousness, Jack dares to slide one eye open to stare at the creature, and he supposes it would look perplexed if it had a true face. Air whistles in and out of its nostrils like a bloodhound sniffing up a tree, and jack feels the grip on the high collar of his jacket tighten. The creature brings Jack foward, up off the ground until his feet dangle mid-air and all breath is slowly being constricted out of him by his own weight. Jack’s stomach does backflips and for a moment he’s uncertain if a quick death would have been more merciful. 

More breaths through the monster’s nose, this time deeper, more prolonged, sucked in almost experimentally and coming out in rings of black vapor that lick Jack’s face. “Mmmmmm,” the monster’s mouthless voice moans. The word that Jack hears next turns his blood to ice in his veins. It’s pronounced deliberately, syllable by syllable, followed by a throaty, delighted cackle. “O M E G A…” 

Jack’s eyes flutter closed as the world begins to spin, the sound of battle growing more and more distant until finally all consciousness is drained out. 

_____________________________________________

He wakes up on a plush mattress. It’s far nicer than anything he’s experienced in his thirty-some years in the service, and it gives in softly to his aching form. He moans, shifts, and as the memory of his last waking moments jolts him back to reality he bolts upright, suddenly slick with sweat and panting, eyes flitting about the room, wide and frantic. Movement out of the corner of his eye averts his attention, and he watches as a tall, armored man gets up out of his chair and stalks through the door. He hears his muffled command from the other side of the room--“Tell Lord Reaper he’s awake.”--before he comes back in, giving Jack a side-glance and sliding back into the chair at the end of the room. 

Jack springs off the bed, not giving himself the time to process the fact that he’s actually not tied down. Considering his extensive military and tactical experience, this seems an odd choice. It’s when the wind hits him from the movement that he realizes how...breezy...things have become. He quirks an eyebrow and glances down. 

His battle-worn fatigues have been replaced by a swatch of flowy white fabric, collected at the waist by a heavy gold belt that rides low on his otherwise naked hips. His heart skips a beat. The ridiculous scrap of cloth barely hides anything, let alone his manhood, and he feels the heat rush to his face as he bends a leg to partially hide himself. If the guard in the corner feels anything, it’s amusement as a smirk crawls across his lips. “Where am I?,” Jack snaps. 

The guard rolls his eyes, unenthused, even bothering to glance down at his watch. “Boss sure picked a mouthy one this time,” he mumbles under his breath.  

Jack snarls, surging forward, fists balled, and despite the spectacle he’s sure he’s making of himself, if he needs to feed the plush carpeting to this guy’s face to get some answers around here, then that is what he’ll do. “I am Commander Jack Morrison,” he announces, throwing his chest out proudly and planting his feet shoulder-width apart. “Leader of Overwatch. If I am a POW, I have the right to wear the clothes I was in at the time of my capture and you’re going to tell me where the hell I am.” 

The man stares blankly, and it’s enough to throw the usually mild-mannered military man into an all-out rage. He bares his teeth and lunges with a roar, hands in front of him. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when a jolt of lightening rockets down his spine and his appendages spasm, slamming him to his knees. He claws at the sensation of a thousand stinging bees at his neck,  finding a circular device of cold metal clamped around it. He means to let out a throaty growl but it only comes out as a whimper, further supplanting his authoritative air. 

The man chuckles, and Jack’s eyes fall on the little control in his hand, which he finally clicks off much to Jack’s relief. He is left gasping for air and itching the crawling sensation along the line of red skin underneath the collar. “Oh yeah,” the man mutters. “Real terror, ain’t you?” 

While Jack is on the floor rethinking the vehemence of his actions and clutching the thick metal choker, another presence enters the room. Well-polished loafers stop on the floor beside him, and Jack’s heavily lidded gaze follows the pressed slacks they are attached to up to a white laboratory coat and the clean-shaven face of a middle-aged, glasses-wearing man. Jack wonders if maybe he could be a doctor or scientist, and he could not look more out-of-place in the lavishly decorated room. If he notices Jack, he doesn’t acknowledge him, glancing only at the door guard and giving him a solid nod. “We’re ready for him.”

“Thank god,” The guard grumbles as he once again gets up from his chair. This time, he strides towards Jack, bending down over his crumpled form and snapping a thick metal link through the loop that protrudes from the solid steel choker. Jack’s eyes flash upwards, glaring defiantly as the man yanks him forward with the short leather lead. “My ass was getting sore in that chair and I’m fucking starving. Let’s get this over with.”

Jack tries to calm the thousand thoughts that are racing inside his brain. Still stiff and jittery from the electricity, he takes a noncompliant step backwards and rears his head like a wild horse. The guard whips around, giving the lead a forcible yank, uprooting Jack and jamming the control in front of his face. “You want me to use this again?!” His thumb hovers over the button. Jack’s eyes flicker from the remote to the man’s, to the scientist’s and back again. He hates himself for it, but takes a hesitant step forward. The guard flashes a distorted grin, all broken teeth and paper-thin wrinkles, and nods, shoving the small box back into his pocket. “Well what do ya know, Doc? Maybe blondie ain’t so dumb after all.” The man uses this opportunity to dig out a pair of steel handcuffs and secure Jack's hands behind his back. 

Jack allows himself to be lead out of the room and into a long corridor. Windows Grace the walls on either side, lavish scenes of biblical stories etched into the Smoky glass. dim light spreads throughout the place, though he can't tell the source. It’s the feeling of his bare feet on the plush carpeting that’s the most foreign of all--Jack can’t remember a time when he walked outside of his calf-high tactical boots, except to take a shower. 

And there’s another thing. His skin has been scrubbed clean and smells faintly of soap. Before he can wonder what parts of him were most likely touched without his knowledge, and by whom, they have arrived at the end of the hallway. Two men in matching suits see them coming and simultaneously tug open their prospective sides of the looming door. Jack cannot help but notice their sideways glances graze his bare skin. A weaker man might feel shock, embarrassment...maybe even fear. not Jack. He knows that it is all part of the game. And if he is to make it out alive, he has to play his part. The guard holding the leather leash gives it a sharp tug, and Jack lurches forward with a stifled groan.

Beyond the hall is a darkened room. It is in the shape of an ellipse with a a raised stage in the center, the only thing breaking up the slick marble tile.  On the stage is an ornate chair with a high backing; intricately carved angels swirl around the legs and the heavy armrests, each feather detailed with inlaid gold. Jack eyes it without bothering to hide his disdain: it might be something meant to show wealth and power, but to him, it’s a ridiculous display of desperation. There is little doubt that its owner has their share of insecurities. and that's good. Something for Jack to work off of. Negotiation is not his ideal form of dealing with an enemy, but seeing as he's been stripped of his fatigues, his blaster and his dignity, he’ll have work with what he’s got. 

In front of the stage, on the floor, is a strange contraption made of solid steel. And no matter what way he tilts his head or how long he looks at it, he can’t for the life of him decipher a functional use for it. Four legs shoot up from a rectangular metal base, each about 6 or 7 feet in height, with large steel rings on each corner and at either end. In the middle of the base, another bar of equal girth is suspended at about half that height, strung with a few more metal loops, thick leather belts and chains. It looks like some type of torture device. Jack steels his resolve--he can deal with torture. Wouldn’t be the first time, but what would be the purpose? He scours his memory for anything--any secret, any data, anything that might be of use to the enemy, and comes up empty. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A gravelly voice whispers in his ear, and he slams his head away, jolting backwards as the collar catches. He’s not the only one--the man in the white coat and the one holding the leash are startled too, though not as much as Jack is, either of them sharing wide-eyed glances as they regain their composure and blow out shaky breaths. A wisp of purple smoke coils around his left cheek as if to caress it before it slithers away and blossoms into thick black billows. The smoke takes the shape of a man and fades away as the figure comes to stand before him, the same piercing red eyes that he met on the battlefield burning into his. 

The man is well-build--a little taller than Jack himself--with an ageless complexion and high cheekbones set over a thick, heavily styled beard. His hair falls in a thick, long waves behind his ears and ends in soft curls just past his shoulder. He doesn’t look human. Jack instinctively steps back. The man chuckles darkly, and the sound seems to come from everywhere. “It’s my own design. It’s a little archaic, but it gets the job done.” 

(What is it?) Jack stops the question with a deep swallow and flexes his jaw. He may be mostly nude--a sharp contrast to this man’s heavily layered form--but he is a soldier, a warrior, a veteran of war--and that’s something they can’t strip away. “I have nothing for you,” Jack states cooly. 

The dark-haired man quirks a thick eyebrow, his eyes dancing with intrigue. “Oh? And how can you be so sure?” 

“It was a ghost mission,” Jack states. “We were briefed on the location and the destination of the cargo. Not its contents or its intended recipients.” He focuses his eyes forward, staring through the man, planting his feet shoulder-width apart like a statue. He remains unblinking as the man hovers ever-closer, until he can feel his breath warm and damp against his face. 

“How long has it been, Commander Jack Morrison of Overwatch?” 

His stomach does backflips. He steels himself, biting down on the edge of his tongue as the man draws him possibly closer. 

“How long have you been keeping up this charade?” 

Jack’s eyes flicker into the burning red irises from the corner of his vision, narrowing them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t you?” The man mock-swoons as he shifts sides, a flutter of cloak and purple mist following behind. “Can’t you sense it, Jack? Can’t you feel it?” A talon hand flashes near Jack’s stomach and he staggers back, letting out a disoriented growl as the guard gives a corrective yank of the collar around his throat. 

“Stay put Blondie,” The guy rasps. 

The nails feel like cold steel spikes as they ghost over his clenching abdomen, threatening to tear the pathetic scrap of cloth from his body, the only thing that separating his flesh from the creature’s grasp. The guard is now at Jack’s back, pressing up against his rigid form and forcing him forward the slightest bit. “Give the boss a good show,” The man demands. “And maybe he’ll share.” 

Share? Jack’s mind is reeling. It nearly distracts from the icy sensation of the long talons making their way down to his navel, dipping underneath the heavy gold belt at his hips, daring to explore further. Jack’s legs instinctively draw closed. “Impressive,” the creature muses, his face now so close to Jack’s that his facial hair begins to tickle his throat. “Do you know what I am, Commander Jack Morrison of Overwatch?” 

“Demon,” Jack snarls. It’s more an insult than a guess. 

It only earns him a throaty chuckle and a thick, wide mouth grazing against his pulse. “Maybe,” the creature purrs. “But perhaps I should show you. I want you to keep guessing, little soldier. Is that alright?” 

The question does not imply consent. Jack’s eyes narrow and he reacts out of sheer instinct, bringing his head forward into the Monster’s. The creature lurches back with a startled howl, gripping his human face with one clawed hand. A spatter of blood lands on Jack’s leg, and he grins. The bastard broke his nose. Good. Maybe he broke the bastard’s nose, too. He swipes the blood from his upper lip with his tongue, ignoring the choking sensation as the collar tightens and the leash is run down the center of his back like a whip. 

“You did it now, Blondie!” The guard gives his shoulder blades a rough shove as the creature’s startled cry dissolves into gleeful laughter. “He’s going to fucking eat you alive!” 

That’d be preferable, Jack thinks. He balls his bound fists,  squaring his shoulders in preparation for whatever the monster throws at him next, straining forward against the ever-tightening collar. 

“He is perfect,” the dark-haired thing in the disappearing cloak strides forward once more, the black blood that ebbs out from his nose dissipating into thin air, becoming rings of black mist. “I’m going to show you what I am, Commander Jack. But first…” A claw hooks a loose lock of hair from Jack’s head, tucking it behind his ear. Those haunting red eyes dance with a fire that comes from deep within, burning into Jack’s ice blue irises. “I am going to remind you what you are.” 

The smoke monster stalks away, floating more than walking, to perch himself on his extravagant throne. He gestures first to the man in the white coat, then to the steel stand spread out before him. “Prepare him for me.” 

Jack’s stomach does backflips as he fights off the guard with the leash, only to be jolted with a million volts and forced onto his knees in front of the man on the throne. He lets out an angry, disoriented groan as his every synapse fights against the fog in his brain and the throb of every muscle. His limp form is dragged onto the steel contraption and he is bent over the bar in the middle, his arms suspended over his head as the guard helps secure him to the platform, one wrist locked into the cuffs on either side. The guard kicks his legs apart as the other man locks down his ankles, proverbially mounting him to the contraption. He is bent over now, with his ass high in the air, arms twisting unnaturally backwards and the crosswise bar splitting his middle. 

That’s when it finally hits him--the memory of the last word uttered on the battlefield just before the world went black---

Omega. 

His breath comes sharp and shallow and he thrashes with his remaining strength, all his bulk and muscle unable to budge the wrought iron contraption the slightest bit. He tries a solitary growl but it comes out like a whimper, and the man on the throne chuckles darkly under his breath. “You’re so pretty, Commander,” the creature coos as Jack feels the lower half of the flimsy fabric being lifted up over his hips, exposing the two fleshy globes of skin beneath. He bangs against the bars with all his might, and the monster just grins. “Yes, that’s it, beautiful. Dance for me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it true?” At last the creature speaks. He stands slowly, the layers of heavy velvet and tanned hide creaking with his every move as he leisurely steps down from the raised platform. Jack eyes his warily, still panting and covered in sweat, flexing his fists which have long since fallen asleep in the circles of steel. “Have you never had a mate, little omega?”

The stabbing pain comes quick, like a hot poker being jammed up inside of him, splitting him in two. He rolls forward on his toes, forcing his weight up over the bar with a bitten off groan as tears spring to his eyes. Looming above him, sitting on his throne like a  deity, the dark-haired smoke monster chuckles and takes a leisurely sip from a golden goblet. He glances down intermittently to swirl the liquid around before his amber eyes flicker back up to meet Jacks. The blue-eyed soldier stares back with a seething glare that promises a slow, agonizing death for the creature...as soon as he can wriggle out of these heavy steel bonds. The tears run down the dried blood of his upper lip and his head drops, chest heaving forward with a spent sigh. 

“He is inexplicably tight,” the man in the white coat narrates. “There is a complete absence of natural fluids, and his muscles are not responding in the least to my fingers.” 

The guard who’d brought Jack in is absentmindedly rolling the end of the leash in his hand as he reaches out to run a sickeningly familiar hand down Jack’s stretched bicep. “He aint’ like he rest, that’s for sure. No wonder he hid so well among the rest of ‘em.” He releases the leash to pull out a bright yellow sucker, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth with a chuckle, his eyes planted firmly on Jack’s quivering body. “Imagine havin’ all that muscle underneath of you. Fuck. Makes me almost pop a knot just thinkin’ about it.” 

“Yeah, well, think,” the man on the throne hisses. “And keep your filthy hands off of him. He’s mine. Understood?” The creature emits a low hiss and his nostrils flare, purple smoke rolling out in tendrils. 

The guard stands a little straighter, fear entering his eyes, swallowing sharply with a slight nod. “S-sure thing, Boss.” 

“Coward,” Jack rasps. The two probing fingers push in further, fighting to stretch his stubborn hole. This, doubled with the guard gathering a fistful of his hair and snapping his head back tears a stifled squeak from his throat. 

“Say that again, Blondie,” the guard snarls into Jack’s ear, the scent of the sucker unable to mask the stench of his rotting teeth. “When my throbbing cock is buried balls-deep in your pretty little mouth.” 

Jack is still able to move his head, something the guard seems to have forgotten. Jack thrashes, and it’s at the cost of his tightly clenched hole.

“Pease!,” The man in the white coat shouts. “I’m trying to conduct an examination and you’re unnecessarily hurting him!” 

“Fuckin’ betas,” the guard grumbles, but he slides back a few inches, and it gives Jack much-needed breathing room. After a few more moments of anguished probing, the fingers leave and Jack bites off a quivering moan as his entrance flutters, the exhausted muscles closing in on themselves, leaving his insides sore and pulsating. The examiner heaves a disheartened sigh, shaking his head and snapping off his latex gloves. “It’s no use. Without a synthetic lubricant, I can’t reach his uterus to determine the state of it. It’s almost as if he’s never had a heat. I doubt he’s ever even had a mate, much less a full reproductive cycle.”

The guard--who is really beginning to wear on Jack’s nerves--lets out a stunned laugh. “A virgin?” 

The smoke monster leans his chin on one coiled claw, eyebrow raised. 

“It would appear so, yes.”

The heat rushes to Jack’s face faster than he can contain it, but any embarrassment he'd usually experience is being taken up by the aftershocks of the protrusion and the cartwheeling of his stomach. 

He is not an omega. He can’t be. It’s been years since he’s even had to think about the reproductive affiliation he was born with. Suppressants and hard training and years of war have bred it out of him. So he thought. 

It would take an alpha with a highly trained nose to detect something under the layers of pulse emissions and burning sulfur and jet fuel to scent out the faint signal of his omega-ness. Something inhuman.

“Is it true?” At last the creature speaks. He stands slowly, the layers of heavy velvet and tanned hide creaking with his every move as he leisurely steps down from the raised platform. Jack eyes his warily, still panting and covered in sweat, flexing his fists which have long since fallen asleep in the circles of steel. “Have you never had a mate, little omega?”

Jack bites down a growl. Of all the things he’s been accused of, being “little” has never been one of them. He strains against the shackles, surging forward in the chains, determined to meet the monstrosity dead in the eyes. 

The dark-haired demon draws out a shuddering breath, the talons of his left hand closing in around Jack’s face, wrenching his head back and setting his spine ablaze as he inspects him. “Ohh…sweet thing, if only you knew what that does to me. To know that I will be your first.”  

If there was any food in Jack’s stomach, it would be scrambling to make a hasty exit. He throws his head to the side, tearing out of his grasp. “--TOLD you already,” he growls. “I don’t have any information!”

The cloaked figure just chuckles, shaking his head and glancing downward at him with a fond look like Jack is some kind of child. “I don’t want anything, sunshine,” he purrs, trailing a finger (if you can call it that) down his shoulder. “I’ve already found what I’ve been looking for.” As the monster loses himself in the feel of Jack’s milky-white skin the examiner clears his throat timidly, smoothing the swatch of fabric down over Jack’s ass like a tablecloth. 

“Uhm, sir, what are your orders, then?” 

“Prepare him for me, I said,” he states matter-of-factly, facing the examiner’s direction as he casually pets Jack’s shoulder blade, playing with his hair. “That’s still the plan. How long do you suppose it’ll take to get him off the suppressants?” 

“Well, wait...you mean, cold turkey?” 

“Cold turkey....” the creature reiterates, trying the strange euphemism on his own tongue.  

“It means without tapering off. Just quitting them immediately.” 

The red eyes flash into the examiner’s. “Do you take me for an idiot?” 

“N-no!” The man stammers, staggering back, hands out in front of him as if to shield himself. 

“No?” 

“Erhm, I mean, “No, Lord Reaper”. It’s just that taking him off suppressants entirely could be catastrophic to his system. It’d be like taking a junkie off drugs. He could have violent tremors, hallucinations, uncontrolled sweats, seizures...there’s no telling the trauma that would do. It’s a possibility that he... might not even survive.” 

The monster rears his head back towards Jack. He stares at him for the longest time, as if searching for a weakness or a sign of fear--a crack in the glass. Jack holds his gaze, because he’ll be damned if he’s giving this inhuman piece of trash a fucking inch. It only makes him smile. “Yes he will.” He nods to the guard, who hits some kind of lever on the contraption that releases all of the chains and eases up on the bars. Jack lets out a shuddering hiss of pain as he springs off the bar to reveal the purple bruise it’s worn across his stomach. He’s got enough lead to wipe away the tears and the blood from his face but all it does it smear it around. The one called Reaper strides forward until his body is framed by the bars. Jack hadn’t realized before how much larger than him the man truly is, and it’s somehow even more evident now that he’s upright. 

“Don’t be afraid.” Swirls of smoke envelop Jack and the steel contraption. There is something in the man’s voice that forces his fear back, and as much as Jack hates it, a sense of calm begins to tingle along his weary spine. The large clawed hand returns, pressing against the side of Jack’s face, a thumb sweeping delicately across his tear-stained cheek. “I’m releasing you from the prison you have made for yourself, and freeing you into the world you were bred for.” 

Jack lets out a sharp sniff, turning his head away from the warm, wide palm. Some inexplicable way, every ounce of fight in him has been sapped from his bones. He stares sidelong into the burning red globes with weary, pained defiance, and what’s meant to be a sharp snarl comes out more like a whimper. 

Reaper laughs. “You hate me now, little one, but mark my words. Once you’ve entered into a full-blown heat, you will be begging for my touch.” 

___________________________________________


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack steps up once, twice, glancing down at the leather loop dangling from his fingers. Then it hits him. This monster--whatever he is--wants Jack to give him the power over him. The power to control him. He stops dead in his tracks and his brow furls, snapping an icy glare towards the waiting man. “No.”

Head throbbing. 

 

Heart pounding. 

 

Somewhere in the near distance, a faucet is dripping. 

 

Every one of his sense is heightened. 

 

The guard’s name is Mitch. Jack discovered that on day three. Right now, he’s sitting cross-legged in his accursed chair at the corner of the room, eyes locked onto Jack, unblinking.

Jack is running out of creative ways to envision shoving that chair so far up Mitch’s ass that the legs come out of the roof of his skull, so he’s settled for leaning against the cool wall and staring up at the ceiling. Jack has been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past twelve hours only to awaken to the sound of loud chewing and that incessant stare. That scrawny asshole is constantly eating something. This time, it’s a cheese stick. He rolls the wrapper down with a gap-toothed leer and bites off the end, chuckling as Jack’s stomach decides to do cartwheels and starts furiously pounding the “eject” button. 

 

“Awww, what’s the matter, Peaches?,” he taunts amidst the dry heaves. Jack lurches forward, over the chains around his middle and the thick collar at his neck. MItch wiggles the cheese around mid-air and it flops forward like a limp dick. “Ya hungry, little fella? Want a bite?” 

 

Jack forces his head to the side, willing his body to recover even as the tremors start back up in his hands. He slides his gaze to the wall, to the centuries-old painting that’s nearly the size of the wall itself. He’s spent hours and days of half-consciousness staring at it--it’s a hunting scene set in the english countryside, with half-starved, long-legged dogs weaving in and out of the trees. In the foreground, a deer with eyes flown wide open with fright bounds over a fallen log, the dogs closing in on its heels. 

 

At first, Jack was angry at the dogs and felt sorry for the deer. The deer is a gentle creature, never harming anyone yet through no fault of her own she is forced to flee as her inevitable death chases her, nipping at her heels. But then, perhaps through boredom, Jack began to study the intricacies of the dogs themselves. Probably not violent by nature, they are the true victims in the piece--starving and captive to their Master’s commands; their only hope of survival, the demise of an equally helpless creature. In the deep brown pools of their eyes, a frightened, desperate animal lingers, and for a moment Jack wonders if it’s his muddied interpretation or if, just maybe, the artist had purposefully rendered them that way. 

 

“I hate to see you hangin there,” Mitch continues, slipping off the chair and teasing towards Jack with a lazy saunter, head cocked we to one side. Jack is forced back to reality as the guard disgustingly traces Jack’s bare stomach with the bitten-off cheese, and Jack pulls away with a sharp grunt. “You know, we could take you down from that wall. Put some clothes back on ya. Maybe let you sleep in that cozy bed tonight?” 

 

Jack doesn’t hold his breath for the catch. He shifts away as best he can, all four limbs aching and stretched to their limits along the cold concrete.  Mitch chuckles, one green colored eye peering out at him from underneath greasy brown bangs. He stuffs the remainder of the snack in his face, tossing the wrapper on the floor and pretending to wipe the dirt off his palms with his pant legs. “But ya see this?” He lifts his bangs, revealing a deep purple ring and a blood-tone eye along with a few gashes across his nose. “See what you gone and did? That wasn’t very nice, now was it snowflake?” 

 

“...More where that came from,” Jack rasps, allowing himself a small but triumphant grin. A sudden pang of pain bursts free and spreads outward from deep within his stomach. A weak groan escapes, his head lolling to one side and he slumps against the chains. A surge of heat makes his heart flutter, followed by beads of sweat that pepper his forehead. He bites back a groan, but a small whine escapes and makes Mitch let out a delighted chuckle. He brings a leg up, planting his booted foot along the crevice of Jack’s hip joint, nudging Jack’s limp cock with the steel toe. 

 

“I could hurt you, ya know. In ways the Boss wouldn’t notice.” 

 

“You’re not that stupid,” Jack offers. With his better judgement screaming at him, he spreads his legs. The closer this asshole gets to him, the closer Jack gets to that remote that’s in his pocket.  Mitch keeps it on the inside of the left jacket breast, with a metal keychain attached to it. It controls the collar around Jack’s throat. Jack’s been daydreaming about the perfect place to put that fucking collar, too, once he has his hands on the scrawny alpha. 

 

Much to his chagrin, the guard sidles away almost as if sensing Jack’s motives. “Yeah, I guess you’re right...the Boss is pretty sharp. ‘Sides, the doc says in a couple of days…” here, he inserts a chuckle, as if laughing at his own inside joke “...you’re going to be on that bed of your own volition, ass up in the air like a well-trained whore, begging me to fuck you.” 

 

Jack laughs back, but it comes out tired and half-hearted. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Jack has other options, too. He knows there is an entire team of his soldiers looking for him, somewhere out there in the void. He’s unsure as to where he is, and there are no windows leading to the outside to even give him an idea of the time of day. He’s not sure how much longer he will be able to communicate with his body at all, and as much as he hates it, he knows the guard is right. The clock is ticking, every second pulling Jack closer and closer to knife’s edge. 

 

It’s beginning to burn inside. 

 

The door cracks open, and the other familiar face peers in around the corner. “Mitch,” the white-coated man says. “Bring him. It’s time.” 

 

Jack is torn between the feeling of relief as his arms drop from the chains and the mortal dread of what’s to come. He decides the unknown is less daunting than the idea of having to stay another minute like this, spread-eagle with all four limbs bound in thick metal bands and bolted to the wall. 

 

His legs release and he collapses onto his hands on the carpet below, extremities weary and shaking. His muscles fire as they scramble the energy to hold him up, and Jack feels a desperate sense of gratitude and hates himself for it. He doesn’t want this--he shouldn’t  _ have  _ to feel grateful for basic human necessities. He’s still gnawing on this fact as the gossamer, white scrap of cloth is slung over his shoulders, the ornate golden belt clasped at the waist, and Mitch chuckles in his ear. “Look at how pretty you are. Oh, I’ve been waiting for this. Boss is gonna make a proper bitch out of you yet,  _ Omega _ .” He spits the name out like bile and drags Jack up. Jack lets out an instinctive snarl, rearing up like a cobra ready to strike, and then Mitch waves that cursed remote in his hands, a taunt and an open warning. “Ah-ah-ah-ah, Sugar tits. Not so fast. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time, now do we? I had to jack this thing up all the way to 11 and we’re still scrubbing the piss stains out of the carpet.” 

 

Jack feels the heat settling along his face and forces himself---as much as he  _ hates it,  _ as much as he can visualize this man’s agonizing death seven ways to Sunday--forces himself to be still.

 

Mitch can barely contain his delight. “Therrrre,” he purrs, running a hand down Jack’s bare shoulder. Jack shakes him off, but the guard clips the leather lead into the ring on the collar and yanks him forward, unfazed. “Such a good, obedient little thing.” 

 

Jack’s legs refuse to cooperate as they make their way down the hallway, and it’s the same hallway and the same direction they took four days prior. His overtired limbs work against his brain, and neither seem to be doing Jack a damn bit of good lately. It doesn’t help that the guard called Mitch keeps yanking him back every so often, and Jack could swear it’s just to goad him.  If that’s the case, it’s nearly working. Jack’s hands are free and all it would take is the slightest movement to knock him on his ass...but if Mitch is quicker and gets to that damn button first, the whole process will repeat itself, and Jack would be worse for wear because of it. Even with his accelerated healing ability, it takes him too long to bounce back from the shock that could for all intents and purposes, fry a full-grown elephant. 

 

Again they make it to the door, again through the leering guards and into the circular throne room. This time it is fully lit, and Jack supposes he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is that the lighting is modern, even if it is just as ornate and ostentatious as the rest of the surroundings. The magnificent, pompous Lord Reaper is already perched on his gilded throne, looking down at the three with his permanent raised brow and air superiority and it solidifies just how much Jack would love to blast that smug look right off the creature’s face. Gone is the metal stand where Jack was restrained just days prior, and at that he allows himself to breathe out a small, shaky sigh of relief. 

 

“Here he is, Boss,” Mitch chimes nervously. (Jack can practically smell the cowardice on him.) “Untouched and unharmed as promised.” 

 

Reaper slides a brief look of indifference over to his henchmen before turning his sights on Jack, the red flames flickering to life inside them. “Have you been treated well?” 

 

Jack blinks and surprise skitters through him at the question, pushing away the tendril of disgust that instinctively unfurled inside of him the moment he saw his face. He gnaws on his reply, wondering for a moment if it’s a trick question or if his captor is looking for some kind of truth. And if he is, what the hell would it matter, since he’s the one at fault for Jack’s current predicament? He settles on that thought, chewing on the rage inside of him and staring silently back. 

 

Reaper’s lips part and he clicks his tongue in mild protuberance before rephrasing the question. “Has he harmed you in any way?” 

 

“No,” Jack spits. That’s easy to answer--NO he isn’t harmed. NO he isn’t hurt or in pain. He is a soldier and such luxuries aren’t afforded to him. 

 

Reaper chuckles and shifts in his plush seating arrangement, extending one hand down. “Bring me the leash.” 

 

When the guard called Mitch takes an overenthusiastic step forward, Reaper bellows out a sharp, “No”, stopping him dead in his tracks. Reaper’s eyes dance into Jack’s even as he addresses the guard. “I want him to bring it to me.” 

 

“B-but, Boss..?”

 

Jack’s teeth are filing themselves down to nubs. He exchanges looks with the guard, both fists balled to either side, as Reaper lets out an impatient growl.

 

“Do it.” 

 

Mitch sighs, dropping his end of the lead into Jack’s hand, which he uncurls instinctively, what little control it offers rekindling the rebellious fire inside of him.

 

He shifts his attention to the monster on the throne; a looming figure of shadow and yards of dark red and black cloth, smoke billowing out from both sides of the chair and slipping from his nostrils as he breathes. The twisted tines for fingers open, a nearly human palm extended outward as he beckons him forward. Jack receives a harsh shove between his shoulder blades and surges forward, his tired feet barely managing to catch his fall. He glares backward at the guard, who is looking dead into the eyes of his master. “Go,” he rasps, and it’s tinged with fearful desperation. 

 

Jack takes a step towards the platform, his bare feet seeming ridiculously small against the wide steps. He looks up at the creature, and he nods softly, something akin to kindness dancing behind the fire in his eyes. Jack steps up once, twice, glancing down at the leather loop dangling from his fingers. Then it hits him. This monster--whatever he is--wants Jack to give him the power over him. The power to control him. He stops dead in his tracks and his brow furls, snapping an icy glare towards the waiting man. “No.” 

 

Reaper raises an eyebrow, but his expression is more one of intrigue than annoyance. “No?” 

 

Jack’s resolve bursts through the static the withdrawal is making of his brain and steels himself, setting his jaw, his back going rigid. “No.” 

 

Mitch makes some stifled commotion from behind him, but Jack does his best to ignore it, training a murderous glower at his captor. Reaper adjusts himself, sitting back further in his seat, folding both claws on his bent knee as he murmurs, “I do not want to hurt you, Jack Morrison of Overwatch. If I do, it will be because it is your choice, not mine. Now, I will ask you once more, before my servant sends ten-thousand volts through that gorgeous head of yours, to hand me the leash.” 

 

Jack doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to come any closer to the creature than he already is, and certainly doesn’t want him taking the one ounce of control that Jack has taken back since he’s been here. Jack also doesn’t want the taste of molten metal in his mouth for the next several hours as his body seizes in a pool of his own fluids. He staggers forward another step, doing his damndest to keep that final few inches of platform separating them as he extends the strip of leather in his grasp. 

 

“Very good,” Reaper murmurs as he takes it from him, and the words sting as bad as the electricity would have. The hold he has on the loop is relaxed, and it looks comically small in the long black spikes that Jack assumes must be his fingers. Jack growls. “Perhaps you feel I owe you an explanation, Jack Morrison. However, I am at odds with how to make my message any clearer to you. You are my servant, now, Jack Morrison.” Reaper nods to the two men waiting at the foot of the raised floor. “Just as they are. There will be no more talk of this “information” of which you speak, or any “mission”. You have been released from all of that. You are, now and forever, irrevocably mine.” 

 

Jack clicks his tongue, retaining an air of defiance as he says, “A servant just like them, huh? Seems to me they get to wear a hell of a lot more clothing.” 

 

Reaper chuckles softly, leisurely turning the leash in his hand. “Well, you are observant after all. It is true, your job is special--nothing like the manual labor my other servants are required to perform. But you will have a position, nonetheless, and it’s time for you to learn what your duties are.” 

 

Jack’s nostrils flare, his justified rage kicking up into high gear as he flexes his fists at either side. “I will not be your bitch,” he hisses, even as the very word sends heat rushing to his face. 

 

“Oh, of course not, no.” Reaper leans forward, the three fingers holding the leash coiling inward as he pulls it taut. “You are going to be my mate. But this will come later. first, as I said, you must learn your duties.” 

 

Jack’s emotions are thrown from rage to panic as he takes an unsuccessful step backwards, teeth bared and gnashing. “I am a prisoner of war, and as such I have a right to the clothes that I was captured in, no unnecessary restraints, and lodgings which suit my ranking as Commander.” 

 

Reaper shakes his head softly. “My darling, I am disappointed. We have been over this--” Jack doesn’t allow him to finish that sentence before he reels backwards, ripping the leather leash back towards him and sending his fist through the demon’s face as he lurches forward. He doesn’t get much further before his body collapses into a spasmodic fit, his limbs violently shaken from their roots by the sheer force of the voltage. It ends quickly, leaving him doubled over and panting on the steps. 

 

“That was just a taste.” Reaper cooes out from somewhere above him, and suddenly a long, black spike is chasing away a bead of sweat from his cheek. “You see, my servant Mitchell is not the only one with a corrective device.” He slips a tiny black box somewhere into his robes and lifts Jack as if he is nothing, back onto his feet in front of the throne. Within moments it is over, and it’s almost as if someone has hit the rewind button. Jack peers out beneath heavy eyelids as Reaper resumes his position on the throne to twirl the tail of the leather leash around in his big fingers. “We will continue when you are ready, Jack Morrison.” 

 

Jack’s head is pounding. Something about the electrocution seems to have reignited his withdrawal symptoms, because his chest is pounding and his belly is on fire and the effects are strange and uncomfortable and making Jack just plain miserable. He doesn’t mean to, but a small whimper leaks out between his pursed lips as he struggles to remain upright. 

 

“Very good.” Reaper stretches his free hand out to lift Jack’s tired eyes to his. “I don’t enjoy hurting you, my lovely. Please do not make me do so.” Jack shifts in the gossamer outfit, now suddenly sickeningly aware of his exposed flesh, the parts of him that were always so well concealed underneath flexible armor and layers of tactical gear. “Now, onto your first duty. Sitting.” 

 

Jack’s eyes flicker up. “Sitting?” He is cautiously surprised. 

 

“Yes. This is the meeting hall, where I entertain my guests, whom you will be meeting a little later on. There are many hundreds of events throughout the year, and this is where I receive them. My palace may seem dark and unwelcoming now, but I can assure you, you have never seen such elegance as when this place is lit with a thousand roaring torches. Your duty will be to attend each such gathering.” 

 

Jack’s eyes flit from either side of the platform, drowsily in search for another surface or platform where Reaper might want Jack to be present. Reaper chuckles, and the sound makes Jack’s stomach do backflips. 

 

“No, my sweet thing.” Reaper spreads his legs, the long robes on either side flowing out and down to the floor,  revealing the shape of human legs underneath black pants. He pats a thigh with those long, evil-looking spikes and smiles up at Jack, giving the leash a sharp tug towards him. “This is where you shall sit.” 

 

All moisture immediately leaves Jack’s throat, and he draws in a shuddering breath from his nostrils. “Fuck you!,” he spits. 

 

Reaper’s head goes back as he lets out a delighted chuckle. “I expected nothing less.” Another sharp jolt causes Jack to stagger forward, catching himself on the high back of the throne and hovering over Reaper’s smiling form. He pulls back sharply and Reaper laughs, waiting patiently for Jack’s reply. He leans Jack’s direction, tugging the leash until Jack’s form is eclipsing his own and his beard tickles the exposed, pulsating flesh of Jack’s throat. “Come, darling. You are exhausted. You should rest.” 

 

“Fuck you,” comes the shuddering, spent reply, even as Jack reluctantly closes the distance between them, coming to stand with his thighs against Reaper’s knee, a distant, defiant look on his face. 

 

Reaper is a huge man, if that is indeed what he is. Jack cannot see much human-ness in him, other than his face and the form underneath heavy, ornately decorated fabric. It is impossible to tell where the fabric and smoke ends and his flesh begins. Jack’s addled brain can’t make any sense of it, though he doubts even with suppressants in his system that he could make much sense of it. But standing this close to him, for the first time in ages, Jack can smell his imperative, and he is very much alpha. The very thought causes a visible shiver to course through him, as his body responds with equal fervor. The next scent is very much his own, a saccharine aroma that is distinctively omega, beckoning to its viable mate and begging to be experienced. 

 

“You feel it,” Reaper murmurs, all grandiose pretense gone from his voice. It’s not a question. He, too, has been stripped away to his base, instinctively lifting his head to bury his nose in the crook of Jack’s neck. His hand has snaked around to Jack’s back, one long talon etching a line down his spine through the filmy material. Jack’s breath hitches, his stomach muscles going taut. “How long has it been, Jack Morisson? How long have you denied yourself?” 

 

“Mh…” Jack’s mouth parts to speak something but the only sound that comes out is a high-pitched moan. 

 

“How many years have you hid in the shadows? How many alphas have crossed your path, oblivious to the proverbial garden of pleasures they just strolled past?”

 

A final tug sends Jack down into Reaper’s lap, landing with a stifled grunt, Jack's ass firmly planted on Reaper’s bent knee. 

 

“Yes,” he praises, smoothing his flattened palm along Jack’s shoulders. The alpha’s scent scatters his restless thoughts, forcing him into a drowsy lull. “That is very good. See how your body rewards you for your obedience?” His hand flutters down to Jack’s thigh, two spiked fingers making their way underneath the filmy fabric. “Has anyone else experienced your beauty, Jack ? Am I truly the first?”

 

Jack’s body is no longer listening to the blaring warning signals his mind is throwing off. It is now finely tuned to those wandering fingers, the sensation of a wide, warm palm cupping one firm buttock and squeezing. He jumps, letting slip a pathetic whimper. 

 

“You will sit here, with me, as we receive our guests. In fact, at any time I so deem, you will sit, so that they will always be keenly aware of exactly to whom you belong. You will wear the garb of a well-bred omega, one who knows his place and who is always prepared to Present for his alpha. Your body will be properly displayed at all times, with every inch easily accessible. You will be my omega, Commander Jack Morisson of Overwatch.” 

Jack has drifted off, his mouth parted ever so slightly, cloudy blue eyes drowsily gazing into Reaper’s. The claws of Reaper’s hands dissolve to reveal intricate, long flesh fingers that dip beneath the fabric draped across Jack's chest to grab hold of a soft nipple, sending a sudden sting of pleasure rocketing down Jack’s spine. A stifled gasp works its way out if his throat and the pink bud hardens, goosebumps alighting along his satin skin. “Keenly responsive,” Reaper observes, his eyes sliding to the two observers in front of the throne. “Doctor, I think we shall begin the second examination, now.”

 

“I’m not sure if that is safe,” The man in the white coat says gently. “It will be another four to five days before his withdrawal breaks and he enters his first heat.” 

 

“That’s what makes the timing so perfect,” Reaper muses, finding the second nipple with his thumb and pinching it to a standing point. Lost in the trance of his own pleasure, Jack starts and emits a mindless whimper. “We have much to discover before I begin breeding him.” He hushes Jack’s pathetic mewls, leaning forward to brush their lips together. “Don’t we, my little war trophy?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even as he struggles against the mechanisms that bind him to the cold slab, he can feel his stomach quiver with excitement and the intense, earnest need to be filled.  Perhaps even sicker is the gratitude he feels towards his captor for sending the guards away.  Whatever is about to happen,  Jack is certain he doesn't want extra eyes watching..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this gets nasty. I shouldn't have to put this in, but just in case anybody misses the Dead Dove tag. Please proceed understanding that what you are about to read is most definitely rape.

There are plenty of shitty assignments Mitch knew he’d signed up for when he took this position, but playing babysitter to an overgrown omega sure as hell ain’t one of them. That’s not saying the job doesn’t come with its perks: soldier or no, Blondie’s about as pretty as they come. He smells like a candy shop but the look of him is Alpha--well-fed and muscled like livestock, that untouched, milky-white ass toned to perfection by years of training. He’s tall, too, with lean, sinewy limbs that look as if they were carved by a master sculptor and a wide back that’d be just perfect for climbin’ on and ridin ‘ all the way to Pound Town. Everything about the guy broadcasts his superiority. Mitch doesn't know how long Commander Tight-ass has been fooling himself, but he's pretty sure it's been long enough that even the most established Alpha would pass by without so much as a second sniff. 

Therein lies the problem: as much as Mitch should be enjoying a break from getting his ass busted in or smuggling high caliber weapons, it sort of negates the purpose if he can't even partake in the Boss’ most recent spoils of war. Wants to keep him all for himself. Which is unusual for Lord Reaper. He's normally a pretty generous guy with his omegas, and Mitch’s career doesn't make it easy to find one for himself. He doesn't mind sloppy seconds so long as he gets a good knot going. 

But something's different this time. It's like Blondie's got him under some sort of spell-- whether he likes it or not--and the Boss is falling for it hard. 

Mitch knows he's just being petty. What the fuck should he care what the job is, as long as he gets his 2 large every week? He’ll just have to rent his funzies for the interim. ‘Sides… at least looks are free, because the view is damn good and as the Omega's premier jailer, he's got a front-row seat to the action. 

It takes three other alphas (Frederick, Parsons and Leif--bout time these lazy bums earned their pay) to tie the squirming bastard to the table. He’s come off it two times now, his violent thrashing stopped only by the click of Mitch's little magic button. He can’t help but cringe as he watches the broad-shouldered soldier collapse into convulsions at his feet, the electric blue lightning dancing over his flesh as he growls and twitches. It only lasts a few seconds before his lifeless form slumps over at Mitch’s feet and they begin the process again, hefting his heavy limbs over either shoulder and depositing him onto the gurney. Blondie lets out a pained groan, his muscles firing to the aftershocks even as he tosses around. 

“Quit it ya dumb ass, ” Mitch growls. “You're only going to make things harder on yourself.” As much as he wants to watch what’s about to go down, his stomach is growling and the lanky omega is doing a number on his already sore back and his patience. 

They finally get his wrists in the straps, Mitch fastening his side a little tighter than what's probably necessary as his little way if paying him back for the busted nose and black eye. The Omega's scent is starting to blossom right out from under him and it's making Mitch's mouth water. He cracks a grin, eyes burning into the soldier’s as he makes his way down his left leg and secures it in the metal stirrup. “You ain't going to like this, Baby Doll. I can promise you that.”

Dr. Endrich looks up from the metal table beside the cot to level his eyes at him. “Let’s keep the taunting to a minimum, shall we?” Stupid beta anyways. He couldn’t possibly understand how hard it is for the alphas; the Boss is practically dangling a carrot in front of their faces and telling him not to take a big ol’ bite

The Doctor hasn’t been here long, only the last week or so, but he’s already managed to become a giant pain in Mitch’s ass. He’s supposed to be helping Lord Reaper figure out why he’s losing omegas (his fifth one died a month ago after something went wrong during labor) Maybe that’s why this time, the Boss ain’t sharing. But if something unnatural is killing off all his mates, it sure as hell isn't because he let the staff help themselves. Ya'd think that maybe the Boss being a giant smoke monster might have something to do with it… 

The Doctor readies a long, clear tube and instructs him to pull up the filmy scrap of cloth that barely conceals Blondie’s bits. Mitch happily complies, his hands trailing up both his thighs and Blondie surges upwards, his head coming up off the table to fire a death-glare Mitch’s way. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he chimes, sweeping the silken fabric to one side and giving his pretty little limp dick a playful pinch,. It sends the omega into a rage, limbs rocking and biceps flexing, every flex of raw fury threatening to tear the straps. 

“That’s enough!” Endrich barks. The low growl emitted from the corner of the room echoes that inflection, and Mitch raises his hands defensively. 

He side-eyes the towering humanoid, dipping his chin downward in the superior alpha’s presence. “Sure thing, Doc.” 

“Leave us”, Reaper announces, his eyes locked on to the writhing soldier on the bed. 

Mitch snorts, his mouth reacting before his mind can. “Hey, I brought ‘im here. The least you can give me is a little peek…” 

The amber eyes flash red, the otherwise smooth skin around them furrowing as Mitch’s blood turns to ice in his veins. 

He swallows down a dry lump in his throat and shoves the remote control back into his jacket. “C’mon boys.” The other guards take turns flashing him looks that beg the question, just who the hell does he think he is?, but he ignores them all, digging further into the pocket to rummage around for the package of crackers he’d stuffed in there after breakfast. 

He’s going to get his chance soon enough. He doesn’t give a shit if Reaper is the Swamp Thing from the 4th dimension, ain’t gonna stop him from getting his jollies. And what the Boss don’t know won’t kill Mitch. 

* * * * * 

Jack had nearly forgotten what he’d been hiding all those years. He’d always known better than to think he could starve the gnawing need forever, but he’d gone about it meticulously, methodically, and had done a damn fine job of locking that part of himself away. There were certain things he'd never risk: he always took showers separately from his team, lathering on extra aftershave when it was needed. If he even felt the slightest flutter of arousal from the scent of a nearby alpha (which his soldiers always were) he'd down a shit load of suppressants and be sure to stand far enough away to escape any detection without being too obvious about it. 

As with every other aspect of his life, he had it down to the most minute detail. 

Not now. Even as he struggles against the mechanisms that bind him to the cold slab, he can feel his stomach quiver with excitement and the intense, earnest need to be filled. Perhaps even sicker is the gratitude he feels towards his captor for sending the guards away. Whatever is about to happen, Jack is certain he doesn't want extra eyes watching, especially not those of the hippopotamic douche-bag that's been salivating over his naked form for the past four days. Four... Is that how long it's been?... 

The man in the lab coat is still here, his eyes planted intently on Jack even as he snaps on his gloves and rummages around the metal side-table to his right. What the hell is he looking at? Not like Jack's going anywhere. Even in his confusion, he knows it's likely impossible to break these bindings. Doesn't mean he's going to stop trying. 

“SSssshhh, my darling.” The guttural, deep voice purrs behind him. It's becoming a familiar sound. Jack hates that. A wide palm curves over his flushed cheek and Jack lets out an unintentional moan. “The doctor does only what he must. Do not be frightened.”

Jack wants to spit out a slur of angry explicatives at the man, beginning with ‘fuck you’ and ending somewhere right around 'burn in hell’ but the hand is human, the fingers plush and warm and suddenly he can't even bring himself to turn his head away. This must please the creature, because he continues his gentle cooing as Jack side-eyes the man in the lab coat. A tendril of dread unfurls in his stomach, and he surges upright against the straps as the man readies a long needle. 

“This isn't going to induce a full heat,” the man explains, tapping the vial and squirting a bit of the clear fluid out. “But it will make him a little more compliant and hopefully get his body to respond adequately.”

“I t-told you,” Jack sputters, “I don't have any information.” The demon has told him enough times now that isn't what they're after, enough for Jack to believe it, but he's grasping at straws here and it feels like that's all he's got. The doctor glances down at him through his lenses and gives Jack a sad, small smile. It hits Jack like a lightening rod. Is that…. Pity? He growls against Reaper's hand even as his head and a few chocolate-brown ringlets dip downward into his vision. Their foreheads touch and it’s like a wave washing over him---the sudden soothing feeling returns. It coils around his pulsating heart and rockets down his spine, capturing him in sated warmth. He knows how pathetic it sounds. But it seems a better option than letting a tear slip through as he murmurs, “... no.”

“Sweet thing,” the monster cooes, stroking sweat back from his face. “Yes, sing for me my dove. I want to hear it. “

But Jack's attention is firmly planted on the man with the needle. He follows its path as the man turns a crank and Jack's knees bend, his hips settling on a firm, flat mattress as they open, his shuddering legs slipping apart to either side. Between them---to Jack’s mortification --- his pale dick springs proud and anxious, arching upwards towards his belly, a glint of expectant wetness at the end catching the light. 

“You see?” Reaper rasps in his ear, sounding as if he himself is biting back a groan. “You want this. You were made for this, mi sol. Look at how beautifully you stand to attention.”

This time Jack doesn't hesitate. “FUCK YOU.”

But the monster simply lets out an amused chuckle and trails his hand down Jack’s neck, spooning his way across his shoulders. His long fingers (now coiling, black spikes) playfully trace his collarbone. “Soon enough, love. Soon enough.” 

A sudden sharp sting sends pain soaring through his dick, but when he jerks his head up to watch the needle retreat from the folds of his frenulum, the groping hands shove him back down. He digs his shoulders into the cheap mat with a stifled roar as electric warmth skidders through his nether region, and the pain leaves as soon as it had come, leaving him trapped and panting, his gaze scattered around the room as he tries to take in what the hell just happened. 

“I’m sorry,” the doctor murmurs. “But believe me you would have liked this procedure less without it.” 

Jack snorts, out of sheer indignance, his eyes boring holes into the doctor’s head as he flips open a sharps carton, disposing of the needle and his gloves. 

But if the doctor notices his glare he doesn’t show it, turning instead to a large contraption beside the medical stand that Jack had been too distracted to notice before. From his place on the bed, he can only catch a glimpse of a clear, small vat that seems suspended by transparent tubing. Inside is a gelatinous mixture of orange fluid and strange, orb-like objects floating inside of it. His breath catches. 

“Ssssshh,” Reaper insists, those wide, roaming claws dragging their way down his chest. The creature looms over him and he’s either purposefully cutting off Jack’s view, getting a better look for himself, or maybe both. Jack throws his weight as best he can, slamming up into the hands in a vain attempt to buck them off. “Insistant, aren’t you? Hush now, sweet pea. You will be feeling good soon enough.” 

“Hmmmnn---!” Jack bites off a cry at the sensation of something cold, long and rubbery slithering along the inside of his thigh. He strains to see, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. At the end of the long, clear tube a vine-like object of the same material makes its way towards his center, and gloved hands holding a metal vice disappear between his parted legs. His heart is slamming against his ribcage, all good, warm feelings gone as a deep rage awakens inside of him. 

He slams his hips downward through the bed, dislodging the metal vice and it clatters to the floor. “Dammit!” The scientist reaches down and retrieves the device as the demon above Jack emits a displeased growl. 

“Submit!” he hisses. The roaming arms now leave, as does the creature’s body warmth as he backs up and delivers a lightening-bolt of electricity straight through Jack’s spine. 

His body lurches off the bed unnaturally as he convulses, foam flying from his mouth as his heart freezes and re-starts in his chest. He can hear the startled shout of the doctor before he is one again thrown to the mattress, head spinning, every synapse in his system alight with pain. He gasps as the electricity pulsates and leaves, the smell of burning flesh from the collar at his throat making his stomach turn. 

“What are you doing?!” The doctor’s eyes are flown wide, he himself clutching onto the medical table beside him, glaring wildly at the smoke-monster. “You could have killed him! The heightener has already increased his blood pressure exponentially and he is still in a state of withdrawal from the suppressants!” 

“He must learn,” Reaper states matter-of-factly. He returns to his position over Jack’s head as if he hadn’t just electrocuted him within an inch of his life. Jack recoils instinctively, blowing out a shaky breath from his nostrils as the familiar scent returns. He hates himself for it. He has never shown weakness towards an enemy--never! All these weak, pathetic feelings are returning with the swell of his growing estrus and it’s disgusting. He is disgusting. “And if he could be killed so easily, his body would not be able to handle the many facets of its duties for me. So please, doctor. Continue.” 

Jack doesn’t have time to dwell on the “many facets” part of that line before the shock of cool metal again returns, the small vice planting itself on either sides of his cheeks, spreading them apart. The shock of cool air hitting his entrance makes him buck his hips upward, but he keeps his shoulders level to the table, and receives a pleased pat on his bicep from long vine-like fingers. He shivers. He continues to squirm as soft, gloved fingers probe his rim, running lengthwise gently along his puckered opening. His cock twitches, and Reaper chuckles above him. “So eager,” he chimes. “Would you enjoy some attention here?” The long black spikes make their way between his pectorals and down his clenched belly, dipping down into the valley between his legs. 

Jack lets out a stifled growl. It’s a warning he knows he can’t back up, and if the creature cares at all, he’s not showing it. As Jack tosses around to fight him off, Amber eyes burn down into his, a wicked smile flashing white fangs as the long spikes lightly curl themselves around his aching cock. Jack’s growl quickly becomes a whimper and he slams his eyes closed, long blond lashes landing on flushed cheeks. 

“So beautiful,” the monster moans. 

The delicate massage becomes a firm probe as one finger works its way inward, the other hand busy holding the long tube-shaped object against his thigh, as if to keep it warm. If this is meant to be torture, why the gentle touches? Why the attention to cleanliness? Why the concern towards his welfare? 

It’s been so long since Jack has allowed himself release. As the commander of a group of rowdy, horny soldiers, it’s his duty to be a constant model of control and self-discipline. Plus, with all the suppressants it’s been an easy urge to ignore. He hates how goddamn good it feels, even if it’s not his own hand. He’s never been touched where the strange sets of hands are touching now, and it makes him just as aroused as it does queasy, 

Between his pathetic moans, the doctor clicks his tongue and holds up the two fingers that were pawing so greedily at Jack’s hole. “Success,” he chimes. Reaper grins, and Jack follows his gaze. The tips of the gloved fingers are coated in clear, slimy slick. “Perhaps attention to the male part of his anatomy has helped to awaken his reproductive imperative as well.” 

“Please,” Jack’s head slumps back down, and this time instead of meeting a cold mat it touches the broad plane of a well-muscled chest beneath layers of heavy fabric. 

“Yes, my darling,” Reaper purrs as he tightens his hold around Jack’s painfully arching cock. “Anything for you.” 

The sensation of the spiked fingers fluttering around his stem as he gently kneads Jack’s round, swollen balls is almost enough to take his mind off the sensation of the fingers as they probe him, breaking through his stubborn hole with a sharp shove and roaming around his walls inside. If he wanted to bare down on those digits and force them out, the metal contraption holding his ass cheeks open stretch the skin wide and prevent him from clamping completely shut. 

He can feel his own slick as it steadily leaks out of him, coating his cheeks and making him slide around on the flat mattress beneath. “This is a really good sign,” says the man in the white coat, adding a third finger. Jack’s back arches as the pressure increases, expanding his walls. “He is responding perfectly to your touch and your scent. We can expect his first heat in a matter of days, now.” 

“Will he be able to...?” The Reaper begins. 

“Our next test will determine that,” the doctor says. Once again the fingers leave. Reaper’s hold on Jack’s stiff member dissolves into absent-minded strokes as he watches, himself seemingly mesmerized, as the doctor once again presents the long, cylindrical object. It is clear and fat, the biggest thing Jack’s ever seen and he prays to God that it’s not going where he thinks it’s going. The fake veins coiling around either side trail around a bulbous head, the tip of which is hollow, as the man attaches a tube to the south end. He flicks a button and a slow whirring sound distracts Jack’s attention. He watches as the gelatin mixture begins to swirl around in the vat and, one by one, the silicone-looking orange globules make their way out and into the tube. It fills the tube and then the penile object, until the very first one begins to peek out from the tip. Jack backs up further onto Reaper’s wide chest, as if he could go anywhere if he wanted to. 

He kicks his legs but they are trapped and useless, spread wider than the width of his shoulders and bent up over his ebbing belly. The clawed hand around his cock starts a gruelling rhythm, but if it’s meant to distract Jack from what’s about to happen it only makes him angrier, more panicked. “Hush, shhh….shhh, now, mi sol.” Jack fights off the groping hand and the one that trails along the side of his face wiping beads of sweat away. He repeats the lulling, soothing sounds into oblivion as the cock is lowered between Jack’s thighs, warmed by his own body, and presses against his stubborn hole. 

He knows it’s no use. That it’s probably going to hurt and that what he’s doing is only making it hurt worse, but he’s got to try something. Anything. He fights back the tears of bitter despair and confusion and traps his lower lip between his teeth, baring down until he tastes blood. 

His entrance snaps closed, dislodging the metal vice as he flashes a furious expression of unadulterated, unmoving defiance. The doctor looks at the device as it falls to the floor, but Reaper lets out a growl and commands, “Continue.” 

“B-but, my Lord, we wouldn’t want to hurt---” 

“CONTINUE!” 

The doctor chews on his thoughts for a brief moment before his sense of self-preservation gets the better of him (the coward) and murmurs an apology beneath his breath, rearing back as he angles the head of the clear dildo and surges forward. 

Jack screams. He can’t help it. The white-hot intrusion sears his entrance as it blows past and into his channel, stretching him inexplicably wide in the matter of a seconds. Hot slick spills out anyway, denying his agony and making it impossible to grip onto anything. To fight back. To resist. 

Reaper’s hands are now busy at Jack’s shoulders, pushing him down onto the huge silicone cock, impaling him. Almost as if to taunt him, to deny him any shred of human decency, his cock bounces freely between his knees, rock-hard, a stream of drool coating his frenulum. The head of the thing inside of him is opening, pushing the awful, gelatinous bulb forward and it slops forward, brushing against something thick and bulbous within his walls. Inexplicably, something deep within him shudders free and he arches forward, his hips rising from the bed and bouncing on the thick, swollen cock. Fireworks alight along his spine as he comes, another egg plopping free of the shaft and embedding itself deep within his belly. His dick sputters as a thick stream shoots out, coating his thighs and the gurney and the doctor’s crisp white coat, and Jack is mortified when a tiny bit splashes onto his lenses. 

As if to calm his worries, the doctor rests a gloved hand on Jack’s knee as he works the fake cock in and out with the other arm. The pain subsides suddenly, Jack’s mind going blank as a strange, sated numbness overcomes him. He slumps back against the wide chest, and almost like a reward, he is quickly enveloped with huge, sturdy arms the size of tree boughs. Long brown locks nuzzle his cheek as he is stuffed over and over again to his brim, until every available crevice is filled. He shifts uncomfortably at the stretch and the sensation of fullness, his tight skin rounded firmly by the strange orange orbs. He watches through half-lidded eyes as the vat of eggs is slowly emptied into him, and belly juts outward over his knees. His cock rests limply below his navel, peppering his skin with drying spunk and slowly creeping downward as his stomach expands. The orbs roll inside of him, tucking themselves in deeper with every movement and rolling Jack’s stomach, making him want to heave. 

But the monster with red eyes seems entranced, his mouth hanging open slightly as one clawed hand traces the swollen curve of Jack's stomach. “Look,” he whispers in Jack’s ear, directing his chin forward as Jack slams his eyes shut. “Look at yourself. Just gorgeous. This, Commander Jack Morrison. This is what you were bred to be. This is what you have been running from.” His fingers etch the widest part of his belly as Jack pants against him, all the fight having drained out of him. 

He is dizzy and feverish as the drugs and his withdrawal war for control, so much so that he does nothing to stop the doctor’s final push as he seats the thick cock fully inside of him, one last squeeze drawing out the last egg from the tip. It lodges inside Jack's tract, pushing the first few further up his belly and expanding his already painfully stretched skin. Jack's legs hang limply at either side, now because there is no room in between, and his dick has been completely eclipsed from his vision, swallowed up by the globe of his tummy. 

It gives him little comfort when the cock is pulled out, the eggs sloshing inside of him as his entrance collapses, effectively sealing them inside. 

“What are your findings?,” Reaper asks. 

The doctor takes a step back, examining his work for a moment before grabbing a handful of paper towels to wipe the crusted semen off his glasses. “I'd say more than satisfactory,” he deduces. “He will make a fine mate if you can break that his stubborn streak. But, Lord Reaper, I must caution you: none of these tests have confirmed infallibility. There are still many risks. And, forgive my insolence, but your methods aren't as… gentle as they could be.”

“Hm… “ Reaper runs an exploratory hand down Jack's bulbous middle almost reverently. “Perhaps we shall have to run more tests then. But not today.”

With that, creature slips out from under Jack, gently guiding his head back to the gurney as he crosses the room. It's a medical unit of some kind, with white walls and odd machines and rows upon rows of cabinets. That's about all Jack has the energy to take note of before the tall man in the long black and red cloak drifts over to a mirrored panel and flicks a switch. The panel rolls away to reveal a lit cabinet with clear silicone plugs of varying sizes and lengths. 

“Mmmng…. “ Jack tries for words that don't come and shifts uncomfortably on the slab. 

“You see, tonight is the Annual Feast of Rain. And I want him clean, well-rested and looking fresh for our guests.”

“Of course,” the doctor says, nodding sharply as he turns back towards Jack. He picks up the long penile-shaped tube and presses it back against Jack's entrance. Jack jumps from the shock of the now-cold instrument against his overheated skin. 

“You misunderstand, Doctor.” Reaper plucks a girthy plug from its case, turning it over in his hand. At the bulbous end, a light blue jewel glitters. “He must get used to properly receiving company, and there is no better way to learn than with a full belly. Someday very soon, it will be my seed, but for now, your silicone eggs will do nicely.”

Jack bucks against the restraints, his eyes flashing in horror. His body is stretched to its limits and begging for release, there is no way he can possibly move let alone do--whatever it is this Reaper wants him to do--! 

He opens his legs voluntarily, baring down on that hated fake cock, willing it to open him. The doctor pulls away at the sensation and Jack whimpers, digging down deep and giving the egg at his entrance a hard push. 

“Let him,” Reaper commands as the Doctor moves to block the way. “Let us see if the virgin omega can properly give birth.”

Jack ignores the remark, even though he is exposed and humiliated and degraded and every decent part of him is screaming at him to keep it in. The pressure is immense. He lets in a sharp breath and pushes downward with what strength he has remaining, lining the egg up inside of himself with his hole and straining as it comes out. It slips easily through with one more push at its thickest part, stretching him wide before it slops out and bobbles onto the table. 

“Just breathtaking,” Reaper groans, and within seconds he has drifted closer, closing in around Jack in a cloud of black smoke, the glittering plug in his hand. “You are doing so well, my little one. I am so proud of you.” Jack rears up instinctively as Reaper chokes the space between them, his long black claws inching closer to Jack’s smooth, exposed flesh. He levels his fiery gaze into Jack’s tired blue eyes, and with a single shove, delivers the entire length of the plug into Jack's spent hole. 

Jack's head flies back with a desperate mewl, toes curling as the plug embeds itself into his abused channel, sealing off the exit and locking the eggs inside. 

“Yesssssssssss,” Reaper hisses, trailing an admiring hand along Jack's bulging belly as Jack wriggles uncomfortably. 

Jack’s eyes flash upward under a knitted brow, as he slumps backwards, chest heaving, stomach full and heavy. “Go…to… hell.”

“I love this color of jewel on you,” he continues, unscathed. “It matches your eyes.” Jack spits and Reaper blocks it easily, bringing the slathered side of his gloved had to his grinning lips. A black tongue slithers out from between them to lap up the saliva. “Tonight, my darling, you will show the world that you belong to me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes once again drift upwards to the chains. He wonders how many others came before him, how many have been shackled to these very walls and what sort of fate did they endure? Did they not serve his purpose? Did they escape, or were they released? Or were they…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks so much for hanging in there with me. First off, my god, you're still reading this trash?! Secondly, this will be my last update for a while. I am hopelessly devoted to the Frank Castle/Matt Murdock (Punisher/Daredevil) ship and Fratt week is coming up! I am going to be putting my next few weeks of time and effort into that. But Reaper76 is my latest OTP and I will return! I promise~ !
> 
> Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, shoot me a comment. Hell, even if you hated it! LOL. I'm joking. I'm incredibly sensitive and will definitely go cry in a corner if you hated it.. <3 -all my love! Entropy

“So where are we, anyways?” Jack knows the likelihood of getting that question answered is nil, even with Tall Dark and Creepy out of the room.  It's more a statement than anything, a way to remind the bespectacled monkey in the lab coat that Jack is human, that he has a voice and a mind, that he's not some lowlife, nameless cock-whore they plucked off the street.  

The said monkey in the lab coat rakes a hand through his tightly-cropped hair and finishes with his cleaning until everything in the medical room is back to being sparkly, shiny and sanitary. Everything except for the raised gurney and the fluid-soaked omega on it. 

As the doctor hovers closer to unplug the now-empty vat, Jack tilts his head his direction. “Funny,” he grinds out, “You were nine kinds of chatty when you were filling me with…” Jack's nose crinkles as he finds it hard to finish that statement. His body has since stretched to accommodate the weight and the pressure of his rounded belly, but it is still awkward and full and embarrassing to say the least. He doesn't get the chance to complete it. The guards shuffle back in, headed up by the lanky one with the greasy hair and the grin that Jack would love to kick off his smug face.  

The fresh wave of scents collide under his nose and fills his head with five kinds of ALPHA, and he bites back a weak groan as his body responds in kind, kicking out it's own fragrant, available, willing scent.  

“Christ,  Blondie,” the one called Mick slurs. “Lookit you… “ His mouth hangs stupidly open, head cocked as he drinks in the sight of him. Jack’s stomach curdles. 

As he wanders closer, the Doctor angles himself between them and for the very first time,    
Jack finds himself thankful for his intervention. “He's off-limits.” His tone is terse, but there is poorly-masked fear behind it. “You are simply to escort him into the shower so I can get him ready for the gathering tonight.”

'So I can get him ready… ‘ The phrase echoes in Jack’s brain and it takes him back to his very first day, waking from an unconscious stupor to discover his nearly nude state, a missing uniform and freshly scrubbed skin. So it was the beta Doctor who was in charge of that sort of thing. Hopefully. Even if it isn't a certainty, it's a hope, and right now that’s all Jack’s got. He examines the slender shoulders and slight form beneath the lab coat and imagines that if he could manage to get the little guy alone, he could easily overpower him and… 

“Alright then, sweet cheeks.” The guard named Mitch elbows his way around the Doctor, toying with the control to Jack's shock collar. “You know how much it would hurt to get zapped with a full load of fluid in yer gut, right?” 

Jack emits a low growl, promising threats he knows he cannot presently back up, and flexes his fists beneath the heavy straps, testing the tension. He  side-eyes the lanky alpha as he unlocks and unhooks each strap, aided by his fellow guards, who take turns leering across the room at each other and having a few chuckles at Jack’s expense. A few disgusting comments are made but Jack blocks them out, focusing instead on the weight of the stuff in his belly and keeping his balance as he slides off the gurney, aided by the puddle of slick beneath him. 

Mitch brings his hands to the front and Jack jerks away at the sight of a pair of golden shackles. Mitch is scrawny but long and his boney fingers curl easily around both Jack’s wrists as he jerks him forward, pulling him nearly onto his chest, grinding his dirty mouth against Jack’s ear. “Give me a reason, Blondie. I’m begging you.” 

Jack’s eyes burn into Mitch’s. Disposing of the greasy lowlife would be almost too easy if he could find the opportune moment to size that remote. Then there’d be the others to worry about, but he’d work out the details as he went. Mitch is nothing without that little black box and he knows it. Jack bites his tongue, swallows his pride, and waits. 

Mitch lets out a pleased chuckle and slams the ornate cuffs on. “That’s what I thought. Good boy--I guess the Boss was right. You’re not that hard to train after all.” 

Jack ignores him as best he can and wobbles forward on the first step--his center of gravity has been significantly lowered and it’s something to get used to. By the second step, he’s gained his footing, which is a good thing, because Mitch seems to hand run out of patience as he yanks Jack forward, in the direction--Jack supposes--of the showers. 

* * * * * 

The doctor is a small man with a mild scent and surprisingly kind eyes. Before Jack remembers just where he is and what the bastard has done to him, he feels a pang of sympathy for him. He doesn’t seem to enjoy his job. Maybe it’s not a job. Maybe he’s as much a prisoner as Jack is. Jack recalls the hunting scene on the bedroom wall, the hunting dogs with wild, starving eyes and gaping mouths. “So how long you been here?” 

Silence fills the void as the man fastens the cuffs around Jack’s wrists to a chain suspended from the ceiling and turns to start the water. 

Jack gasps when it hits his back and the cool shock skitters up his spine. “Sorry,” the man murmurs. His voice is monotone, his expression flat; this is not the first time he’s done this, not by a long shot. For the doctor, Jack’s waking nightmare is just another day at the office. 

As the water warms, the man readies a washcloth, lathering it with copious amounts of a clear blue fluid. It quickly suds and the man goes to work, scrubbing Jack briskly, starting with his face and neck and travelling in a zig-zag motion across his chest. Jack’s stomach tightens as the cloth drifts further, but the man nonchalantly wedges Jack’s legs apart with a bent knee and makes quick work of his distended belly, rolling the cloth over his rounded, stretched skin as the suds run down. 

“Eindrich, is it?” Jack flexes his wrists, giving the chains an experimental tug as the doctor disappears behind him. “I think that’s what the guard called you.” Jack flicks his tongue out over his lips as the scent of soap and the fog from the warming water fills the small room. “How long you been at this? I know this ain’t your first rodeo.” 

The cloth lands at the center of his back and dips between his legs. As embarrassing as the whole endeavor is, Jack is glad to at least be rid of the slimy mixture of lubricant and his own slick sticking to his ass. “Silence, please,” the scientist murmurs. 

“How many have there been? How many ...like me? What, does he eat them or something?” Jack’s heard of wild creatures doing that very thing, mating and then consuming their prey. Though in this instance it wouldn’t make much sense; it’s usually the carrier that eats the sire, but he digresses. Jack isn’t going to pretend he knows what an otherworldly smoke-monster is capable of. He’s barely had the opportunity to speak to him, though it’s pretty clear that’s not a necessary component of whatever the monster has planned. Neither is free-thinking, personality or choice, apparently. 

Jack gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes once again drift upwards to the chains. He wonders how many others came before him, how many have been shackled to these very walls and what sort of fate did they endure? Did they not serve his purpose? Did they escape, or were they released? Or were they…?

“I’m here for your benefit.” 

Jack’s ears prick up at this. He cocks his head as the man finishes, scrubbing Jack’s feet and paying special attention to the places between Jack’s toes before drifting up to scrub his heels, his ankles, his calves. 

“There have been a few,” Eindrich continues, his gaze still angled downward at the task at hand. “And what happened to them…well...I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” 

It’s the doctor’s tone that chills Jack straight through to his core. It is dripping with sadness and laced with remorse. It’s enough to make Jack pretty certain what became of ‘the others’.  

Eindrich shoves the tap off, lowers the chain and drapes a plush white towel around Jack’s shoulders. A sudden muffled voice bellowing from the other side of the tile walls grates against Jack’s ears. “You two about done in there?” 

“Now please,” the doctor murmurs, his voice lowered, hazel eyes pleading into Jack’s. “No more talking.”  

* * * * * 

“You are absolutely stunning,” the low, saccharin voice murmurs into the ellipse of his ear. 

Jack bites back the urge to growl and instead plants his feet, straightening his back and trying his damndest to retain the lash shred of his dignity. “I wouldn’t know.” 

Despite all that has been done to him and the many atrocities Jack has had to endure, the man called Reaper manages to still find things to take away from him. This time, it’s his sight. A thick blindfold has been tied tightly around his eyes and secured at the back, but what Jack can’t see he feels--another gauzy scrap of cloth has been flung around his midsection, this one hugging his hips and barely covering his cock. But it’s no loincloth--the back is left fully exposed, probably so that the Reaper’s “guests”--sick fucks that they are---can gawk at the jewel that’s been embedded in his asshole. His stomach is painfully tight, yet somehow his internal organs have managed to move, making room for the gelatinous eggs inside of him, and he is surprised at how easy it has become to walk. Jack feels the slightest sense of pride at the thought--it will upset the 7-foot-tall smoking monstrosity, who was probably hoping to watch Jack struggle and beg the whole time. Well, fuck that and fuck him. Jack is a soldier, a man of war and steel and laser guns, and there’s not a fancy rag or pair of cuffs or medical torture device in the world that can take that away. 

He stands with his head high, leveled as best he can with the demon’s as if they were meeting eye-to-eye and sets his jaw in defiance. 

Much to Jack’s chagrin, the creature merely emits a light-hearted chuckle and traces a claw down Jack’s spine. “Enjoying yourself, Commander? That is good. More than I could have prayed for.” 

Jack snarls, but before he can deliver a comeback he is being pulled down the center of a gawking crowd. There is very little light entering through the blindfold but what does is sparse and dim, like candlelight. There are oohs and ahhs on either side of them as they proceed, accompanied by the faint sound of a small string orchestra somewhere towards the back. Judging by the slight echo, Jack deduces that he is back in the throne room again, headed up those accursed steps to the looming chair above. 

His heart begins to pound. The shock of cool hair hitting his shoulders and belly and ass makes him shiver and he hates himself for it, fighting back the urge to tear himself away and fight. Fight as if his life depends upon it. Fight for the ones who came before, who didn’t have the strength to defend themselves. He burns with embarrassment--the knowledge that regardless of not being able to see the crowd, they can see him, every exposed part, every line, every fold, every scrap of flesh and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. 

“Be good, Commander,” Reaper’s breath is hot and sweet and smells like red wine. Jack shifts, letting out an uncomfortable groan under his breath as one wide hand spans the expanse of his ass, a single spiked finger slipping between to draw circles around the plug embedded deep within him. “Your reward is within reach.” 

Jack stops. He pulls back from the towering demon, his mouth dropping open even as a spike of pleasure shoots through his center, a sudden sharp tapping on the plug reverberating straight up inside of him. His knees buckle, and the Reaper catches him with a free arm, holding him against his wide chest. 

His chest. Jack reaches out his cuffed hands to paw at the skin beneath, searching for any sign of clothing. The thick cowl and vest that were present earlier are gone, replaced by a silky fabric that opens to reveal a wide, muscular physique. The skin is surprisingly soft, a well-defined collarbone peeking out over a light peppering of hair. Beneath the surface, a heart beats. 

Human. 

Jack struggles momentarily to break the iron grip, his mind cartwheeling as he fails to escape. But if he is only human, Jack can beat him! He isn’t some other-dimensional monster or demon, he’s flesh and blood, just like Jack! Fallible! Jack pounds his locked fists against it, only to be crushed further between two arms the size of a ship’s rudder and further into the Reaper. “Hush, my darling. Shh….please. What has startled you?” 

“You’re a human!,” Jack’s voice rings out. He throws himself against the hard body with a battle-roar, furious at himself for ever being intimidated by some tall guy with a smoke machine and a dracula getup. 

He ceases when laughter scatters around, men and women chuckling haughtily as if he’d just cracked a wise joke. Reaper shares their amusement, easily subduing Jack with a sharp inward press of the plug. Pain rockets through him, slamming through his resistance and breaking his resolve. With a defiant growl, he slumps forward, legs shaking as his body rides out the aftershocks. “You must forgive him,” Reaper chimes, his voice implying a grin as he turns outwards to the crowd. “We are still in the process of learning.” 

Another body crowds Jack to his left, a boney elbow pricking into his side and shoving him forward. “Walk, Blondie,” Mitch growls. “Or I’ll light you up in front of all the nice people who came to see you.” 

Jack’s heart pounding, he hesitantly continues, chewing on Mitch’s words as he goes. Reaper’s hand has drifted away now, only one wide palm continuing to rest at the small of his naked back, just above the intricate chain belt that hangs below his swollen belly. If these people are truly here to see him, what does that even mean? Or is Mitch just talking out of his ass again? He bites down a whimper that threatens to escape as the whispers start. 

“Beautiful…” 

“This one is bigger than the rest.” 

“...those nipples, so pink…” 

“He is lovely.” 

“...looks like an alpha.” 

They ascend the steps as the music continues amidst the clinking of glasses and the static of the crowd. Jack doesn’t have to see them to know these people are made of money; the cavalier tones and sounds of high heels clacking on the marble floor are enough to set him on fire with righteous indignation. “These your lackeys, too?” Jack murmurs as he’s lead up the marble steps. Reaper’s long claws travel from his back to his arm, and Jack is surprised to note they are just as smooth and warm as human fingers, not like leather gloves or gauntlets would be. Just another question to add to the mystery. “They don’t seem the type.” 

“They are my constituents.” 

Jack sneers. “You got yourself a little flock of followers, is that it? People you sell your wares to?” 

“My wares?,” Reaper repeats, as if the term sounds absurd coming from his mouth. “My dear Commander, these are our admirers. They have come as my witnesses, and we wouldn’t want to be rude and keep them waiting, so please.” He raises a hand and a hush falls over the congregation, as if everyone is anxiously paused, awaiting the start of some event. He slides down into the oversized throne as Jack unsuccessfully tries to swallow the lump that rises in his throat. “Sit. As we practiced.” 

The room is spinning. If this overgrown buffoon thinks for a second that Jack is just going to… 

A sharp shove in the direct center of his back sends him nearly toppling into Reaper, his bound hands and bulging belly stopping his fall. “Git, Blondie!”  The snarl coming from over Jack’s shoulder is not his own--it is louder, deeper, coming from the pit of Reaper’s chest. He can practically feel Reaper’s eyes burning into Mitch’s as he protectively wraps his arms around Jack. But instead of pulling him down into his lap, as Jack is very much expecting, the arms steady him. Jack pulls away as soon as he regains his composure, taking one step back to separate himself completely from Reaper’s grasp. 

“Please, Commander,” Reaper begins again, his voice tender, almost kind. Jack hears the sound his thick hands make as they pat his lap, and a murmur breaks over the crowd in waves. 

Jack could disobey, though he’s not sure what seven thousand volts of electricity would do to a body stuffed with water-based gel. Probably nothing good. He doesn’t feel like further embarrassing himself by pissing all over or foaming at the mouth, either. His heart skips a beat as he steps forward, fists clenched in front of himself. He slips in between Reaper’s knees as they spread, and a fresh burst of unadulterated scent curls its way up Jack’s nose. It’s heady, needy, harsh. Jack can’t be sure, it’s been so long since his body has responded to a smell like this, but it could be rut. He jams his nose downward, trying his best to block the scent, and gingerly lowers himself onto Reaper’s thigh. 

The plug seats further inside of him, his belly expanding with the pressure and the compressing space between his knees and his ribcage. He sucks in a sharp breath, his head snapping back as he fights to keep the jeweled portion of the device outside his body. His entrance spasms around it, a fresh spurt of slick breaking free and drooling down the leg of Reaper’s dress pants. Reaper lets out a lusty groan as it soaks through. Goddamn it, this is so fucking embarrassing! He feels his cock twitch anxiously between his legs and bends a knee, praying that all the movement he’s making hasn’t caused the scrap of cloth to shift and expose himself completely. His nipples are raised so hard that they hurt, the openness from the cool breeze blowing across them only worsening the reaction. 

The Reaper lets out a pleased grunt, one hand returning to rest against Jack’s back as the music stops. “Thank you all for coming,” he announces, sliding back into the chair and taking Jack with him. Jack stiffens, trying to remain as upright as possible and balancing himself on the jeweled plug. There is a slight clatter of a tray as a servant steps forward with a wine glass and Reaper takes it, raising it in a toast in front of his guests. Soon after, the band starts up again and people begin to mill around, chattering and continuing their derogatory insinuations Jack’s way. 

“What is this?,” Jack rasps. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. You could at least have the decency to tell me what’s going on!” 

“Didn’t Mitchell tell you?” Reaper asks, a lilt of feigned innocence in his voice. “We are celebrating tonight.” 

Beneath the blindfold, Jack’s eyes narrow as he tries the term on his lips, as if it would make any sense. “Celebrating…” 

“Si.” Reaper raises the wine glass, taking his time with a long leisurely sip before adding, “Our engagement, of course.” 

Before Jack can shoot straight up and pummel the bastard right across his smug face, Mitch snags the back of Jack’s collar, forcing him back down onto Reaper’s lap and effectively burying the plug inside his weeping hole. “MMMMH!” Jack bites off a sharp cry and Reaper cooes in the midst of Jack’s whimper, silencing his outburst with two fingers pressed to his mouth. 

“Shh, shh, shh, mi muneca. We haven’t gotten to the best part. I’ve brought a present for you.” 

“Present--?” Jack’s mind is reeling. He feels sick and panicky and overwhelmed and furious, furious at himself for letting it get this far, knowing damn well he should have fought back harder. He shouldn’t have given into ANYTHING. He should have been stronger. “I don’t want anything from you, you filthy sack of--” 

Reaper has been waving someone forward. Jack doesn’t bother to let his mind dwell on what it could be this time. More torture, he supposes. More mindgames. More “tests”. He’s going to give Reaper a helping of justice he won’t soon forget---all the gloves are off this time. He’s going to slaughter the man. He’s thinking all these things as the sea of bodies parts to reveal a small group advancing to the front and center. 

“Commander?” 

A young, frightened voice breaks through the crowd and Jack’s blood freezes in his veins. “J--Jesse?” 

The blindfold falls around his neck, and as light pours in Jack fights the glare to make out one of his soldiers, surrounded by armed guards, bound and shoved to his knees on the marble floor. Their eyes meet for only a split-second, Jack’s mind reeling from the ramifications of what this might mean for his team. 

The dusky-haired soldier is afforded some type of clothing at least--stripped of the armor-plated vest and chaps, the young cadet is down to a tight, army-issued tee shirt and his brown uniform pants.  He sports a clean red cut in a diagonal stripe across one cheek, his dark skin peppered with fresh bruises, but other than that he appears unharmed. 

He wants to be scared for Jesse, to be concerned about his welfare, how he is being treated and if they are feeding him. but all those meaningful, purpose-driven thoughts are flooded out by the realization that one of Jack’s men---one of his soldiers---knows what he is. 

Jack looks away, stopping just short of burying his face in the open V of Reaper’s chest. “G--get him out of here! Let him go!” Despite the soft, human hand that descends into his hair in gentle, loving strokes, he growls out, “Don’t let him see me like this.” It’s meant to be a demand, but it comes out too shaky. Weak.

“My darling,” Reaper murmurs, his lips hovering close to Jack’s cheek, “There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. This is your normal function, and it is beautiful.” He delivers a chaste kiss to his temple before turning to the guards that stand surrounding the kneeling soldier. “Thank you gentlemen. That will be all.” 

“W-wait!!” Jack shouts, jolting up off Reaper’s lap and surging forward as his cadet is hauled up to his feet. “Where are you taking him?!” 

“He’s quite safe, I assure you,” Reaper states, running a hand down his back in soothing strokes. “And will remain so.” 

The sudden realization hits Jack head-on like a freight train. He turns on his heel, glaring back at Reaper with icy blue eyes. “As long as I do what you ask.” 

The burning red flames and smooth grin tell jack all he needs to know, and suddenly his stomach is doing backflips. 

“It’s okay, Commander!” The young cadet shouts over the murmuring crowd. “I’m a’right! I’ll git you out of here! I’ll get us both out! You’ll see!” 

“I admire his spirit,” Reaper murmurs, taking another slow sip of his wine. “You know Commander, he would make a nice addition to my own little army. If you learn your place, perhaps...” 

It takes everything Jack has to bite his tongue. 

* * * * *

It hurts far less than he imagined it would. Of course, it’s not a baby. Just a hard ball of goop dropping from his body and onto the tile floor. “That’s it, beautiful,” Reaper purrs, smoothing the sweat from Jack’s brow as he surges forward, dragging a sharp gasp inward as he bares down on the next firm mound inside him. This one is a bit larger, stretching his tired hole wide, seemingly content to stay lodged halfway inside of him. 

“Spread your legs, darling,” Reaper instructs, skittering his talons down Jack’s quivering thigh. “Round your hips and gently curve your back.” 

“You---” Jack lets out between heaves “---you sound like you’ve done this before.” 

Perhaps even in his current state, Jack can fish for useful information. The more he knows about the strange man who dresses like a smoke-creature and captures unwitting warriors, the easier it will be to get inside his head. 

Reaper lets out a stifled laugh through his nose as he holds Jack’s hands over his head, pressing his chest against Jack’s back as he strains around the thickest part of the egg. “I have,” he admits, sadness tinting his words. “Too many times.”

“They--mnnnnrgh---they didn’t make it?” 

“No.”

Jack focuses on one last hard push as the thing slides out of him, helped on by Jack’s own self-lubricant and the thick gel from the vat. 

“Lovely,” Reaper praises in earnest, pressing his plush lips against Jack’s shoulder blade and nibbling at the goosebump-freckled skin there. 

Jack’s nose curls. The smell coming from the man is overwhelming. It’s a mixture of far away spices and sensual greed and black coffee and it’s clouding Jack’s mind. It’s unnerving, how relaxed he is, his back slumped against the wide expanse of Reaper’s chest, allowing himself to be held up by huge arms, those spiked claws scratching pleasantly across the swell of his stomach. 

“I wonder how many of my pups you will carry,” Reaper muses, and Jack’s mind is too far gone to care. “The record is three. I’m confident you can break through that with ease. I have little doubt, now, that you will survive even if the pups do not.”

“Mmmmh,” Jack sighs, his eyebrows twitching as the eggs roll around inside, making their way one by one through his tract. Reaper’s hand flattens against the rounded wall of his abdomen and he pushes inward, earning a sharp gasp from his stubborn omega. “You...sadistic…”

“Yesssss,” he moans, his tongue curling up his neck to lick a strip of saliva straight over his scent gland, and Jack jumps a bit at the sensation. “Look at yourself,” he commands,sliding his gaze to the mirror on the far wall. 

Jack knows better. Knows he won’t like what he sees. He throws his head to the side with a grunt as he feels the dull pang of yet another sac pressing outward from his wet, puckered entrance . This is far more work than all the uphill treks in all his missions put together. And he is unsure of how many more there are to go. “Please…” Jack whimpers. He detests begging. It’s a last resort and it’s making his needs known, even if they go unheeded. 

Reaper captures his chin, forcing his head the direction of the mirror with barely any effort. “Look,” he orders. 

Jack’s eyes flicker open to reveal the dark-haired behemoth curling in around Jack’s bent form, the slippery pile of fake eggs in an orange mound around their ankles, and (much to Jack’s horror) his stiff, anxious cock fully inflated and bobbing upwards towards his swollen tummy.  

“You were made for this.” A long talon traces Jack’s tender flesh all the way to his groin, setting a little red line in his flesh all the way to the leaking tip, and threatening to slip inside the tiny opening. 

“You’re...so….nnng--full of it,” Jack manages. He clenches his stomach tight, doubling over as the next egg makes its appearance. 

“Don’t fight it, darling. Relax through it.” Jack makes a weak attempt to shake him off but Reaper begins a gentle circular rhythm, the etching feeling of the spiked fingers along his veiny flesh a sharp contrast to the wide, warm palm enveloping his length. 

Jack doesn’t mean to let slip a keening whine as he rounds his back and bends his knees slightly, pushing the round thing out of him. This one pops out with a bit of force, his cock freely bobbing between his legs as it drops. 

“Would you like a treat, my darling?” Reaper crushes his lips to Jack’s ear as he starts up a rhythm, and he is quickly rewarded with a string of moans as the next egg bobbles out, joining the growing pile collecting at their feet. “And what about here?” The spikes of his opposite hand dig into a pin-hard nipple, transitioning between gently massaging the areola and pinching the growing bud. 

“Nnnngh…” Jack sees stars as the pressure inside him mounts and his bound hands flutter along the slick tile, searching for purchase. 

“It will be such an honor to watch my pups suckle at those round, pink tits.” Reaper whispers praises into his ear, flattening his chest to Jack’s back and rolling his hips into his aching hole. Jack is not the only one full-mast, and if what he’s feeling against the back of his thigh is over half the length of his trapped cock, Reaper is positively massive. “That is me, darling. Do you feel that? Do you feel what you have done to me?”

“Never...Been one for dirty talk.” Jack whimpers as the last egg falls. His aching walls collapse, spasming over the sudden loss of fullness and still seeping slick. Reaper holds him there against the marble tile, flattening his sore belly against it as he works a merciless rhythm with his hand, bringing Jack to climax nearly instantaneously, his come splashing against his stomach and coating the cool marble. He rides it out, grinding his teeth and shoving back against the hard body flattening him to the wall, his lungs scraping for air. 

That’s fine. At least it will afford him momentary relief from the growing need that’s been slowly gnawing at his brain.

But this time, there is no momentary relief on the other end of the shockwave. Instead, a searing pang like a hot poker ricochets straight through his gut, sending hot static shooting up his spine and stealing away his breath. He surges upwards, his hips rounding in an automatic and unwarranted response to the proximity and scent of the alpha--and he can’t stop the next thought--his alpha. 

As his knees give out beneath him, two powerful arms hold him up, saving his head from going clear through the shower wall. His ragged breath batters warm against Jack’s neck as the energy between them fuses their bodies together, the oneness and closeness feeling so...right.

“I know, Jack,” Reaper rasps, he himself sounding on the very verge his self-control. “I feel it too.”

Jack can only pant in his place, his heart pounding heavy against his ribcage as the pure need overwhelms him. The want for this man. For his thick cock to fill him to the point of breaking. Hot tears spill down uncontrollably at this revelation, and Reaper kisses them each away worshipfully. 

“Hush, darling. I’ve got you. I know. You are so ready. Shh, now. I will give it to you, my baby-doll. All you need to do is ask. Say it, and I will belong solely to you.”

Another sting of pleasure stabs through him, nearly knocking him off-balance and setting his skin ablaze. 

Jack’d nearly forgotten the feeling, but now there is little doubt to what this is. Dread settles deep in his bones as the realization hits him like a freight train. 

He’s in heat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He flexes his arms, both biceps neatly pinned to either side of his head (seems like their natural placement these days), rigid steel cuffs binding his wrists together. An experimental tug offers no give. But the rest of him seems free--the flesh of his torso and legs bare and free from binds, the cool air of the room skirting over his heated skin, sending goosebumps scattering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who waited so patiently for this update, I hope it lives up to your expectations. Be warned, the ending isn't very "happy" though it's not exactly "sad", as I wanted to leave it up to interpretation a bit. As of the date of this post, I have a total of forty fics on Ao3, and you have made this my thirdmost popular. I am honored and flattered! 
> 
> Anyway, you have waited nearly a month for this update, so I will not keep you any longer! Please remember to Kudos, and if you REALLY liked it, I will shamelessly admit I live for comments!
> 
> All my love, 
> 
> Entropy

He cannot see much from his current position: laid flat on his back, purple shadows licking the ceiling above and casting a dark cloud over the room. From what he can see, his naked legs are bent slightly, ebbing belly flat and empty and quivering from the loss of fullness. He struggles to part his heavy eyelids, to let in what little light there is, the mercurial pools following the shadowy figure that looms in the corner. 

 

He is nearly solid: a tall man, structured, his dark skin greyed by either age or illness, though his face shows signs of neither. Jack even thinks for a moment that in another circumstance, in another place, he might even be beautiful. He flexes his arms, both biceps neatly pinned to either side of his head (seems like their natural placement these days), rigid steel cuffs binding his wrists together. An experimental tug offers no give. But the rest of him seems free--the flesh of his torso and legs bare and free from binds, the cool air of the room skirting over his heated skin, sending goosebumps scattering. 

 

It takes Jack a few ragged breaths to force himself back into his reality. That’s right. He’s no longer a free man, at least not for the moment, and the creature that creeps in and out of the mist is either the cause or the result if that. He’s hungry. He aches. His legs feel overworked as if he’s run a thousand miles, his shoulders burning from the constant pull of the binds. 

 

“I was a soldier too, once. Like you.” The creature makes his rounds, all billowing smoke and leather beneath a black hood as he drifts ever closer.

 

An indignant rage bubbles to the surface, and Jack lets out a sound that’s one-half snarl and one-half laugh, throwing his head to the side. He bites down hard on his lip. “You were never like me.” Jack has held plenty of POWs himself without ever exploiting their biological imperative or forcing them to undergo unecesarry “medical” examinations. Whatever this creature is---whoever he was---can’t hold a candle to the Commander. 

 

Reaper continues, unfazed, one hand reaching out to caress Jack’s knee, long black talons etching the skin over quivering muscle. Jack jerks it away with a hiss and does his damndest to ignore the fluttering sensation in his stomach and the warmth that spreads through his center as the sensation drifts higher. “I know,” Reaper murmurs, his glowing red eyes veiled beneath heavy lids. “You are so much more. That’s why you had to be mine. I wanted you the second I scented you, Jack Morrison.”

 

Jack’s brow furls. How could he have known what Jack was, when Jack had gone through such painstaking lengths to conceal it? As if to answer him, Reaper chuckles, his hand drifting up towards Jack’s throat, to the place just behind his ear, where he had scented him not hours ago. Jack’s eyes flutter closed, his body responding before his brain has a chance to catch itself, a sharp moan working its way out between his pursed lips, his upper half turning as best it can to spoon inwards towards the touch. 

 

His Reaper.  _ His alpha.  _

 

His brain fires off warning signals that disrupt the calming effect of his touch, Jack breathes, “You felt that same way about the others, too?” It’s meant to be a biting remark, one that digs into him like a knife in an already open wound, but it comes out gentler than that, in a sincerity that surprises Jack himself. What the fuck should he care what omegas have come before, other than the fact that this man is a murderer and they died by his hand, accident or not?!

 

Reaper’s hand withdraws, and Jack can breathe again, just the slightest. Still, a little bit of sadness seeps in and Jack quickly hides it with a crooked smile, aimed directly at the creature’s unreadable face.

 

“Not quite,” Reaper murmurs, his voice laced with regret. He lowers his hood and his cinnamon hair spills down in thick, soft ringlets. Jack quirks an eyebrow--somewhere in the midst of pissing him off, Reaper’s hands have returned to their human form. Fine, lilac-colored scars etch across their surface and disappear beneath a satin dress shirt. “They were weak, Commander Morrison. Not warriors like you or I. I figured a man who could handle a pulse rifle half his own height could bare me many children without the fear of his body breaking down.”

 

Jack’s eyes narrow as he tries desperately to push back the tendril of fear that rises up from deep inside. “What are you?” His voice is barely a whisper. 

 

A dark chuckle is the only reply as the smokey tongues of vapor skirt along each side of the bed, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once, tickling Jack’s thighs and curling in along his already weeping dick. Jack bends a knee to partially hide himself, and that leaves his wet hole open for the taking. A roving tendril grazes the ultra-sensitive area, and Jack slams it shut, suddenly vying for control of his own body, his own nature. 

 

“You don’t disappoint,” Reaper breathes, again sweeping light touches against Jack’s pulse point, directly over the mark he’s made. “In fact, you are more willing than I thought you’d be, in the end.”

 

_ In the end. _

 

Jack twitches at that, kicking his free legs into the roaming clouds, scattering them like fine dust. His feet claw the mattress in search of purchase, but there’s no foothold to be found, just yards and yards of the softest silk Jack has ever experienced. And Reaper’s scent is all around, aided by the excess movement and Jack is kicking it right up into his own flared nostrils. 

 

Jack lets out a roar of frustration that sounds alot like defeat, and it earns him nothing but a subdued, almost adoring chuckle, that stabs through him quicker than a knife. 

 

Hate/anger/fear so quickly turns to longing/aching/need and back again that if it could, Jack’s head would spin right off his shoulders. “Why fight this?,” Reaper asks, his tone unguarded and sincere. “You have already given yourself to me. You have claimed me as your mate, and now, my love, all that’s left to do is that which is natural.”

 

The part of Jack that is screaming to be let go, to fight back, to  _ defend--- _ crumbles at the mere mention of their bond. They are connected, now. There is no denying that. He can still taste the tinny after-effects of Reaper’s blood coursing through him, can smell the smoke/sea spray/musky odor and feel his veins boiling hot at the thought of it. He almost doesn’t notice as Reaper begins undressing, revealing more of that dark cocoa skin and the light purple scars that trace his outline as the clothes drift away in black billows. Jack unsuccessfully bites off a whimper, hates himself for it. 

 

He doesn’t want this. It’s not about being an omega or being a commander or being a soldier or leading an army of alphas---it’s not! It’s about the enemy--and Reaper is the epitome of that definition. Jack settles on that fact and thrusts upwards with his full weight, ignoring the pain as his arms scream against the chains. 

 

“Shh, shh, shh darling,” Reaper hushes, his wide, bare hands seemingly covering every inch of Jack’s skin and making his body sing at the touch. 

 

YES! Yes, that’s it--that’s what he needs! His reaper. His alpha… 

 

“I didn’t want to restrain you, my sweet boy.” One roaming hand settles on Jack’s face, sweeping away glittering beads of sweat in soft downward strokes. “Oh, my sweet thing. I don’t want you harmed. No harm will ever come to you, do you understand me?” 

 

Jack is too late to stop himself before he nods in reply. Something about being loved, being protected, eternally safe. Jack’s never wanted that before. It’s never been a need. He’s Jack fucking Morrison, Commander of motherfucking OVERWATCH! He doesn’t need this...he doesn’t want this…! He wants….he needs…

 

Reaper’s weight lands beside Jack, the whole bed slumping towards him, Jack’s chest brushing against Reaper’s arm and earning him a deep purr. Reaper nuzzles his face, the crook of his neck, nibbling at his earlobe and sweeping over the silver collar at his throat. The sweet spot itches and burns for that mouth, the warmth and wetness and closeness it will bring. 

 

His mouth cover’s Jack’s, the lips soft and wide and moist, brown curls tickling Jack’s shoulders and sending the heat straight to his cheeks. It earns him another weak whimper, and Jack’s mouth parts slightly, allowing his roaming tongue inside. 

 

He is rewarded with deeper pets, Reaper’s powerful hands capturing his thighs and kneading the shaking muscle there, parting them ever so slightly as he covers Jack’s body with his own. 

 

To Jack’s surprise, he feels 100% human. He’s barely used to skin-on-skin contact, having been so careful not to allow it. It feels good, some part of the process actually soothing his fever and settling his nerves. Inexplicably, it feels as if he’s known him for years. 

 

“You will bear me many children,” Reaper murmurs in between slow, lingering nibbles, working his hand between Jack’s legs to stroke his rock-hard length. “Feel how ready you are for me, mi corazon?” 

 

Jack’s breath hitches. Reaper wastes no time in slipping silently in between his legs, fingers searching lower, pressing into his warm, wet center, flicking a wide thumb over his slippery entrance. 

 

“F--fuck…” There’s supposed to be a ‘you’ at the end of that sentence but it gets lost somewhere between Jack jerking painfully against his restraints and Reaper expertly flipping him over onto his stomach, knees grinding into the bed and ass raised up into Reaper’s lap. 

 

His body is fully preparing itself, against Jack’s will, the intense ache lighting fireworks up his arched spine as his hole weeps slick. The groan from somewhere above him has turned into a dry, animalistic rasp, and one hand rounds the curve of his ass while long, elegant fingers begin to pry at his hole. 

 

It steals his very breath, sending all conscious thought scattering as the pressure increases, wide soft digits burying themselves into his opening, aided by his natural lubricant. “Oh my darling,” Reaper praises, his naked thighs connecting with the back of Jack’s legs as the pressure leaves. 

 

Jack stiffens, balling fistfuls of cable and silk into his hands and squeezing so hard the metal screeches together. He is lining himself up. 

 

Something about it feels so good--like whatever it is that Jack so desperately needs is just within reach---his stomach flipping from the desperate need to be filled, by something, *anything*----he is so very empty and it’s burning him alive! 

 

It happens so quickly, before Jack is prepared, before he has time to let any of it make sense. The pressure is intense, but not painful, the full length of him breaking past his entrance in a single shove. A keening wail escapes, his chest heaving and stomach clenching as he takes in the pressure. He buried his head in-between his crossed arms as he is pile-driven into the mattress. The position is so natural, so right---he spoons his back, opening his hips, exposing more of himself despite embarrassment, presenting for his alpha.

 

Reaper groans above him as he begins a steady rhythm and the room is filled with the soft slap of skin on skin. Jack whimpers helplessly against his weight as his overheated skin is rubbed raw by the sensation. 

 

Reaper takes hold of the shortest hairs on the back of Jack’s head, pulling him backwards as if to force Jack into that pose, keeping Jack’s ass high as he feeds more of his devastating thickness inside of him. “Darling, oh fuck…” His head lolls to one side as he becomes lost to the sensation, but Jack is immobile, impaled on the painfully hard cock as if budging one inch would tear him. “I wasn’t wrong, love. About any of it. You feel better than I could have ever imagined.” 

 

“So...Ngh….full of yourself,” Jack manages.

 

Reaper lets out a soft chuckle and sends a particularly sharp jab straight into Jack’s guts. “Perhaps, sweet boy,” he teases as the omega gasps and scrambles in desperation to climb further up the mattress, “But you are full of *me*.”

 

Jack snarls, fighting through his estrus to regain some semblance of control, bucking his hips sharply in an attempt to throw the larger man off, but the alpha’s rod is fully seated inside, pulsating and growing against Jack’s collapsing walls. He is nearing the point of exhaustion, his body peppered in sweat, when suddenly the rhythm ceases and without warning, Reaper pulls out. 

 

Jack swears he can smell the burning break fluid as his mind scrambles to make sense of it. His raw entrance squeezes in on itself, threads of slick falling empty and useless between his legs, his stomach fluttering from the loss. 

 

Empty. 

 

“Nghhh----what….what are you?”

 

Reaper is still above him, his manhood arching upward between his thighs, rubbing himself lengthwise along Jack’s used hole. “What’s the matter, beautiful?”, he moans. 

 

Jack slams his head up, body arching into the void for something, *anything*! A whimper escapes his pursed lips without his consent, and after a few useless minutes of skittering around on the overly soft sheets for relief that just won’t come, he falls to the bed, stomach knotted, legs quivering. He flattens his chest and is shocked to feel his nipples, pin-hard and swollen, digging into the satin. “Ngh...Mnn….”

 

At last, his alpha moves ever so slightly, and it’s too slow and far too gentle, but he feels the heat and the length of him as Reaper skirts his cock back and forth against Jack’s fluttering hole. “This?”

 

Jack whimpers. 

 

“Is this what you are looking for, sweet thing?”

 

Jack throws himself backwards into the arching shaft, letting out a cry of desperation when he misses, his opening instead encountering heavy, swollen testicles. Reaper hisses in return, withdrawing as if the sensation is too much for even him, as if at any moment he could lose control and end this little game he is playing. 

 

“No, no, no my darling. I want you to say it. I want you to want this. Why else bother taking so long to teach you, to prepare you?”

 

“Never,” Jack grunts out. “I’m...I’m a soldier, same as you. I don’t want...I can’t…”

 

“Oh but you *can*,” Reaper presses, long fingers caressing the glistening orb of Jack’s ass. “You can and you will. But not because I want it, Jack Morrison. Because *you* want it.”

 

“Want...Want what?”

 

“Why, to be filled of course. Same as any omega. To be fed the cock of your alpha-mate, to be filled to the point of breaking. To feel his seed explode inside of you, to carry his offspring. And I, Jack, I want that too. All the power in the world means nothing without it.” 

 

The sensation of Reaper’s cock being pressed up against his opening sends shockwaves of pleasure through him. 

 

It feels like fulfillment. This is what he wants! What he *needs*! Jack’s mind is screaming it louder than anything. Louder than his warrior’s instinct. Louder than his pride. 

 

“Y...Yes.” Jack’s throat runs dry, his elbows buckling, knees giving out from beneath him as he shatters into a million pieces. 

 

The throbbing length presses firmly against his soaked slit, probing too gently, too sweetly, not enough. Never enough. “Again, my omega.”

 

The nickname makes him shudder, sending precome leaking instantaneously from his useless dick. “F…” Jack’s eyelids flutter closed. “Fuck me.”

 

“Very well,” Reaper’s voice is barely above a whisper, morphing into a guttural rumble as he presses forward, blowing past Jack’s tight ring of muscle, invading his walls, feeding every viable inch of himself into Jack in one blow, reveling in the keening wail it produces. “Here is your reward.”

 

Jack comes instantly, clamping down mercilessly on the invading pressure, a thick line of cloudy white wetness streaming out, soaking himself and the mattress and sheets beneath him as he sobs uncontrollably into the onslaught of sensations. 

 

_ This is what he was meant for. This is his purpose. His reason for existence.  _

 

_ “Such a good boy,”  _ Reaper groans, jack-hammering his insides until he, too, is brought to completion. 

 

The hot seed spilling into Jack fills him up beyond what he ever thought possible, his belly bulging outward as he spoons his back to accept it, the warmth and weight filling every corner of his being. It distracts from the boulder that is suddenly seating itself just beyond Jack’s entrance, locking Reaper’s pulsating cock inside as the shockwaves pump out the last of his come. 

 

His pounding heartbeat sounds in his ears as his breathing returns to normal, the downward climb from the high calming his overactive nerves and forcing his body down like a sedative, until his head is so heavy he can barely lift it. 

 

Reaper is still breathless, panting above him, smoke and mist curling swirling around thier naked forms as he allows Jack’s body to do what it deems, to take him in, to put his twitching cock to use. “So beautiful, darling….yes…”

 

Reaper’s wide lips kiss and caress and pepper his back, tendrils of hair falling down to tickle his spine, the small involuntary jerks from his hips rocking Jack’s lifeless body into a fitful sleep. 

 

* * * * *

 

_ Four months later…  _

 

The heavy steel door opens with a shriek, a sliver of light spilling into the stale cell. 

 

“Hey, Clint Eastwood,” Mitch snaps. “Seems the Boss has finally found an excuse for sparing your sorry ass.”

 

The tan westerner looks a little thinner since he got here, that and the overgrown scruff on his face and stringy hair marring his youthful features. He rubs his eyes, but if he thinks Mitch is going to wait around for him to get accustomed to the light, he’s stupider than he looks. He grabs the cowboy’s shackled wrists and yanks him into the hallway. “Easy,” the cowboy murmurs, and it earns him a shove in the direction of the throne room. 

 

“Got something for you to see,” Mitch chimes with a crooked grin. “You ain’t gonna like it. But just remember”---he flashes a small remote, twirling it around his index finger before shoving it deep into his pocket---”no tryin’ anything this time.”

 

Mitch doesn’t like his new job. It was a lot fucking funner taunting Blondie, even if he didn’t get to pork the mouthy bastard. This “Jesse” guy ain’t half as fun. 

 

They make their way into the throne room, where the King himself sits with his fancy new whore, all dolled up with a new outfit. Seems he’s “outgrown” the white one. That’s okay. Black suits him, and it still shows off every inch of skin in one way or another. Blondie looks damned uncomfortable--and Mitch imagines he would be too, if he had a plug up his ass the size of Reaper’s arm with a jewel danglin’ out of it for every alpha to see. 

 

Still waitin’, hopin’ maybe someday Reaper’ll share…

 

But he seems to like this one real well. And he seems to be doing better than the others were at this stage in the game. Those that had made it this far were rail-thin and worse for wear. 

 

Not blondie. The sucker’s still got that Better-Than-Thou look on his perfect face, even as his ass is planted firmly on Lord Reaper’s knee.

 

Mitch shoves the Westerner down on his knees in front of the bottom step, using a little more force than what’s needed and grinning at the groan it produces. The kid looks up at his Fearless Leader with these lost, sad eyes and it’s enough to make Mitch snicker. Pathetic.

 

“C-Commander,” the kid says, and he dips his head, Mitch supposes, because he can’t exactly salute in his current state. 

 

And, oh, Blondie ain’t happy. In fact, his face turns tomato-red and he slams his eyes away, as if hidin’ in Reaper’s chest is going to do any good. Little late for that, sweet pea. 

 

“How dare--” Jack begins, but Reaper cuts him off without so much as a glance, his eyes locked onto the stammering POW in chaps. 

 

“Mitchell told me of your recent failed escape attempt.”

 

Blondie opens his mouth and he’s snarling as if he’s gonna say something really nasty the boss won’t like, and it earns him a flash of those burning red eyes and a hard yank on his collar. Mitch thinks just how hot this shit is with these two. Sometimes he thinks just watching their struggle for power is better than getting to participate. 

 

“That would make it, what, the fifth time this month?”

 

“Yessur,” Eastwood slurs, a defiant grin on his face. 

 

Reaper pretends to inspect the long black talons on the ends of his fingers. “You see, Private McCree, that’s a problem. Especially when you try to involve my mate.”

 

“He ain’t your ‘mate’,” McCree gruffs. 

 

Reaper chuckles, and it’s the kind of sound that’d make any sane man piss his pants. Reaper gathers a fistful of Blondie’s short hair, forcing his head back. Poor Blondie. He’s got purple and blue bite marks all up and down his neck, but the ones underneath Reaper’s tunic match, and Mitch knows. He’s seen them. The little “omega Commander” gives as good as he gets. “I thought you might say that,” he murmurs, inspecting his work. “In spite of obvious evidence to the contrary. That’s why I called you here, Private. To share something with you that I hope will illustrate the uselessness of your actions.”

 

“Ya gonna start talking English, there, Compadre?” 

 

Mitch was waiting for Eastwood to open his smart mouth, and had a boot ready, which he plants firmly between the kid’s asscheeks and grins widely at the resultant howl. Judging from the high pitched squeal, he’d say he even got a testicle or two on that one. “SHUT UP,” he barks, giving Jesse’s leash a firm yank and forcing him back into an upright position. 

 

The kid chokes and sputters before landing his gaze back on the shamed omega, who’s still looking off somewhere, probably wishing he could just crawl beneath the floorboards. God, he is hot when he’s embarassed. 

 

“Show him,” Mitch hears Reaper murmur. He watches intently as Jack bites his lip, his eyes glittering with delight as the omega stills completely, as if doing nothing will spare him what’s about to come. Obviously, he doesn’t know his alpha very well. 

 

Reaper gives Blondie’s head a good shake with the clawed fist that’s still buried in his hair, and Blondie sucks in a pained hiss. “SHOW. HIM.” Reaper bounces the knee that Blondie’s planted on, shoving that pretty little plug up further inside and working out a squeak from the disobedient lil shit.

 

When he recovers from having his hole assaulted, Blondie’s hand drifts reluctantly downward to the corner of heavy cloth that’s draped around his middle. Mitch is practically salivating as the kid at his feet gives a little gasp. The thick robe falls away, tumbling down off his lap to reveal a beautiful, full belly. His tits peek out stubbornly from the filmy fabric of his tunic, slightly rounded and heavy with milk.

 

Mitch swears he can see the pups wriggle to the movement. 

 

“Commander…?” The kid’s tone is unreadable. He’s probably just as stunned as Mitch was the first time he noticed it. Didn’t think the blond adonis could look any more lovely, but he became Mitch’s walking wet dream once the Boss knocked him up. 

 

In the dim light, Mitch can’t be sure, but he could swear he sees a tear glittering in the corner of the Commander’s stubborn, far-off stare. 

 

Fucking beautiful. 

 

“Tell me, boy,” Reaper purrs, reaching one hand down to absentmindedly pet the rounded flesh of his omega’s stomach. “What do you think of your precious leader now?”  

  
  
  


  
  
  



End file.
